


I Walk the Line

by ragnaayanami



Series: Samara Saga [1]
Category: The Walking Dead (Comics), The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama, Friendship, Gen, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Post-Apocalypse, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-08-31 14:05:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8581435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ragnaayanami/pseuds/ragnaayanami
Summary: 1st installment. The Kentucky sheriff got more than he asked for when the stepped foot in the seemingly abandoned farmhouse.





	1. Unwanted Guest

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all you devils!  
> First things first. I am rather uncertain of posting on this site. It's a bit disorganized and it takes some time until I have to edit the text from MWord because apparently this site is either very outdated or just simplistic.  
> But I'll try.  
> Things you need to know: I'm going to section the storyline into different titled stories. Prequel goes in one, Season 2 into the second, Season 3 into the third, and so one and so forth. I do this because I don't want to have a story with 100 chapters. When I see fics that long, it just makes me too lazy to read them.  
> The 1st story is more of an introduction to my OC (background and such).  
> Second thing you need to know: I'm going to combine the comics with the tv show because, let's face it, the comics have more story and development and the tv show is progressing too slow for my tastes.  
> For now this is all I have to announce, so the only thing left to say is, Enjoy!
> 
> All characters (except for my OC's) belong to AMC's TWD and to Robert Kirkman.  
> The news fragment belongs to Tom Savini's version of Romero's 'Night of the Living Dead'. I have no claims over it. (I used it because it seemed rather fitting)

Driving along the countryside was never as boring as now.

A sigh resounded in the black Chevrolet Tahoe. There was a woman behind the wheel looking blankly at the road ahead. She still had kilometers to go until she reached Charleston.

"Hey Marshal, I need to take a piss."

The afternoon light bounced off her dark rounded sunglasses as she looked in the rear-view mirror at the twenty something year old young man in the backseat. He was her recently caught fugitive to be taken back into custody.

"We'll reach Charleston in half an hour. Hold it in."

"Oh come on." The man whined and shifted in his seat. "I'm gonna piss myself until then."

"Do that, and you'll be pissing through a straw for the rest of your life." The woman told him coldly. She'll personally shoot him in the groin if he ruined the backseat of her car.

The man cursed her and went back to watching the scenery with a scowl.

She didn't get paid enough for doing things like this. Driving half the state in search for this idiot and then having to run through a muddy forest to catch him. The fool thought he could lose her this way. He only ended up tumbling down a slope and spraining his ankle.

The woman looked down at her fine leather boots. They were caked in muck and dead leaves and gods knows what else. The leather was most likely ruined.

_Great…_

"Can you at least turn on the radio? You talk as much as my mute grandpa."

A heavy breath escaped from between her pursed lips. He seriously complained too much. "Will it make you shut up?"

"Yeah." He mockingly replied.

The Marshal pushed the button on the radio and searched for a music channel. Almost every station was broadcasting news. Giving up, she let it be. It was about the virus again.

_"…The scientific community is focusing on the phenomenon, specifically on that trance like state that seems to characterize the assailants. Clearly a behavioral disorder, but what could've caused so widespread and dramatic condition as the one we're facing tonight. We've heard speculation, on everything from the Ozone layer and chemical weapons, to uh..."_ The news caster laughs softly. _"…voodoo mysticism and organisms from space."_

The woman blinked. _What?_

"The fuck? Did he say aliens?" The man leaned forward to hear better. His face was scrunched up in confusion mixed with slight fear.

"Get back." Annoyed, her elbow came towards him in gesture causing him to scramble back in fear of the blow. He already had his foot in a brace, he didn't need his face bandaged.

_"A biologist in Stockton, California, has released reports, stating the uh...bodies, of the recently dead, are returning to life. Driven by an unknown force which enables the brain to continue to function."_

The woman stared at the radio with wide eyes. _What the hell did he just say? Dead returning to life?_

"He's joking, right?" The man's fear was blatant in his insecure tone.

_That's impossible_ , the woman thought. This virus was like rabies, right? Dead coming back was—ludicrous.

_"Doctors at the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta, reject that theory, calling it preposterous beyond belief. They feel that the only reasonable explanation is a virus that has a mind altering effect on its victims. Though how such a virus could've been spread so quickly and across such a vast area, does remain a mystery."_

The man took a deep breath before continuing. _"It's being called "Judgment Day" by religious leaders—"_

The occupants of the car never got to listen to the rest of the broadcast. Because in that moment, with her eyes glued to the radio, the marshal didn't notice the person standing in the middle of the road.

"Look out!"

A sudden collision and loud crash jarred the woman out of her trance. She let out a curse and heard something heavy roll over the roof of the car. Taking control of the steering wheel she tried to maneuver the car to stay on the road and not run into the ditch on the side of the street. Planting both her feet on the break, the tires let out a longwinded screech before finally stopping.

A heartbeat later, her fingers unclenched from the steering wheel and she checked the rear-view mirror. There was a human shape sprawled on the pavement with his limbs akimbo.

"Fuck."

"Holy shit, you just ran someone over." The man breathed out in disbelief before letting out a thrilled hoot. "Hey marshal, maybe they'll give you a jail cell next to mine."

A fist in his face was his reward.

"Fuck! You goddamn bitch! When I get out of these cuffs I'm gonna kill you!"

"Shut up."

Opening the side door, the woman climbed out of the car and watched with dread the form on the ground. She couldn't believe this. Out of all the times, now she had to kill someone. Unintentionally, even.

The woman approached the figure while digging through her jean pockets for her cell phone. Something was off. She hadn't been driving so fast that the body would be so…destroyed. Broken yes, but not head to toe bloody.

Dialing 911, she scowled when she heard the monotone recording. _"I'm sorry, our lines are busy. Would you hold the line, please? I'm sorry, our lines are—"_

"Goddammit."

Closing her phone, she closed up on the body and crouched beside it. Her fingers searched for his pulse. Nothing. Dead. The woman ran her fingers through her hair. She had been in the wrong, she knew that. She hadn’t been looking where she was driving, and so she hit the bastard. What was he doing in the middle of the road, anyways? Why didn't he yell out when he saw the car or get out of the way?

The marshal rose up with a deep frown. This was very wrong.

Looking around she saw something on the side of the road that stopped her line of questioning. There was the tail end of a car sticking out of the side ditch. She headed towards the car in case there was anyone else inside. It wasn't like she could do anything else for the man on the road. Once up close, her frown deepened. The windshield was in pieces; fragments of glass still attached were caked in blood.

There was a body inside.

The woman's lips molded into a grimace. Her palm was placed over her mouth and nose, the stench being that unbearable. You'd think whoever died had been there for weeks. Her eyes widened in revulsion. The body…there was barely anything left of it. Bloodied bones, torn flesh and organs were draped over the passenger seat. The flesh…it looked like something had chewed it. She had seen the results of unfortunate infantry men getting hit by RPG's or stepping on landmines, but she'd never seen anyone…eaten, before. This looked like a frenzied animal attack.

Upholstering her Glock, the marshal looked around, her eyes cautiously scrutinizing the surrounding area. If whatever animal did this was still around, she needed to be careful.

_Groan. Squelch. Thump._

The woman froze. Her head slowly turned towards the road and watched a sight that would soon become all too familiar—the corpse's arm was twitching. At first, the woman thought she saw wrong, but then the arm twitched again. And then the leg. And then the whole body stirred.

…The cadaver…was moving…

_What. The. Fuck?_

Her eyes were glued to the scene with macabre interest. The corpse twisted its limbs and attempted to get up on both its broken legs only to fall over again. This was the first direct encounter with the disease the marshal had and it shocked her to the core.

The ghastly thing turned its head towards her and grinded its bloodied, yellow teeth. She flinched in dread and horror at the sight. It didn't even look like a man anymore, just clumps of grey flesh stitched together. Its mouth was painted red, and the blood looked fresh. Her gaze turned towards the car—the corpse looked fresh and had bite marks. It didn't take a genius to realize what had happened; who or what had done it.

A memory abruptly came to the forefront of her mind. A story her grandmother had told her when she was a child to try and spook her. And terrify her it did.

Wendigo. Humans turned into cannibalistic monsters.

Her pupils dilated in primitive fear. The newscaster said—

The dead coming back.

Letting out a blood curling snarl, the thing dragged her out of her thoughts and started to crawl towards her, its translucent white eyes scorching her soul. This monster was watching her like prey.

The moment the monster started towards her, was when the shock melted off, replaced with hyperaware senses. All her body functions went into overdrive, propelling the fight or flight instincts to go rampant.

She raised her gun and aimed at the monster.

"S-stop or I'll…shoot."

The thing didn't or couldn't hear her; it kept advancing. When the monster was just a foot away from her, she pulled the trigger. The bullet ran through its shoulder.

Nothing. It kept advancing.

The marshal took a step back and adjusted her aim.

The second bullet hit its forehead.

This time he went down, hit the concrete with a sickening squash. The marshal stood there, breathing heavily. Behind the dark shades, her eyes were wide and brewing with barely contained panic. Her mind couldn't produce any coherent thought.

Distant thuds broke through the fog. Her attention returned to the car and saw it shake slightly. The detainee inside knocked himself against the window again and she could hear his muffled shouts. The marshal ignored him in favor of approaching the cadaver, gun still aimed at it.

No movement. She nudged it with her foot and still nothing.

Letting out a shaky breath, the woman re-holstered her weapon and sidestepped the monster. She backed away still watching it, wary of any surprise attack in case it wasn’t actually dead.

The marshal tried dialing 911 again, but got the same recording. Taking one last look at the thing, she climbed back into her car.

"You killed that guy! Is that how you deal with a hit and run, marshal? You finish them off?" The man asked in rapid successions. He kept looking out the rear window at the now dead body.

She didn't respond to his questions. She just started the car and drove off, watching the carcass from the rearview mirror until it became nothing but a speck in the horizon. The woman's eyes returned to the road. She was gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles. There was nothing in her expression that could decipher the emotional rollercoaster she just went through not a minute ago, and was still experiencing.

There was only one thought that kept repeating itself over and over in her head.

_Shit._

 

* * *

 

One month, four weeks and three days.

That's how long it's been since the world ended.

And how long it's been surviving in this new merciless one.

The Georgia sun was setting, engulfing the farm and its surrounding vegetation in an orange and crimson hue. There was a slight breeze in the air creating a wave-like effect in the wild, uncut grass. If the farm's current occupant had been a poet, she would have said that it was a breathtaking sight and that the coming night would be showered with tiny sparkling diamonds. As a poet, she would have been left breathless.

But as it is, she wasn't.

The setting sun just meant that very soon there would be limited visibility of impending threats. It would take a while to spot if any of those wendigos shuffled near the property even with night goggles. And those undead bastards weren't even the most immediate threat. The living have always been more dangerous than the dead...

A sigh echoed in the darkness of the bedroom. The woman was sitting vigil in front of the window overseeing the road with a Remington 700 PSS sniper rifle leaning against the side of the wooden chair and a can of pears in her lap. She was eating with slow movements, her pale green eyes trained on the lush field for any ripples in the green 'ocean'. There was a Border Collie curled around her feet, happily chewing on a bone.

The ocular pair moved over to the driveway and long stretch of rapidly cooling pavement. There was no movement except for the slight disturbance from the summer breeze.

Another sigh left her lips. She seemed to be doing that a lot lately, but then again she had valid reasons. The world had gone to shit faster than Usain Bolt at the Olympics. She had always thought than if the world would end it would be either nuclear war or a large meteor hitting the planet causing the extinction of human life just like the huge reptilian ancestors. But no, the gods decided that having the dead come back to life and gnaw on the living was a much fitting end.

The gods are cruel indeed… Either that, or they have one twisted sense of humor.

After her first brush with the wendigo on the West Virginia outskirts, she had listened to further broadcasts. They all said the same thing.

One bite. Fever hits. You die. And then you rise as one of them.

Destroying the brain is the only way to kill them permanently.

…It all sounded like some B-rated horror movie with witch doctors.

She had waited home for as long as she had been able. But once the situation got worse—as in the military enforced martial law—she had packed her things and raced towards New York. Her husband was there. The stubborn man had refused to leave his work, saying that the virus was just something passing. He had been so wrong.

—She never reached New York.

Days stretched into weeks.

The radio reports she heard only crushed more of her hope. Atlanta, where the CDC was, fell within the first two weeks of the global outbreak. The rest of the country fell within a month.

America reverted back to no man's land.

In this course, the virus spread all over Europe and Africa. Asia was starting to experience signs of the virus. It was just a matter of time now before the whole world was gone.

On one particular day it almost made her give up entirely. She learned, via some thieves that managed to steal her Chevrolet Tahoe, that there was no going back to the old days. They would all soon become one of them. No matter how they died.

With each day she felt hope chipping away bit by bit and resignation to her situation settling in. It was beginning to get clear that life will not return to normal. She just didn't want to admit it.

She had found a black 1970 Ford Mustang parked near an abandoned warehouse with the keys still in the ignition. The Mustang reminded her of her first car, a dusty green 1969 Dodge Charger. The day she had to sell it had been a truly sad one.

It wasn't easy finding clear roads, a lot of times she came upon abandoned cars jamming the highway with the risen dead shambling around. She had to backtrack and follow back-roads, which usually had her spinning in circles before finding the right way.

It was worse when she stumbled upon people. Life hadn’t given her the best of people skills and the world coming to an end didn't improve them one bit. She stayed with them for as long as she heard all the valuable information they had. Some were more desperate than others, but there was nothing she could do about it. She had her survival to think about and there was no room for any others.

She decided to head south, maybe Texas or Georgia. The heat would slow down the wendigos, maybe speed up the decomposing process.

Once she and her furry companion entered Georgia territory, the woman was forced to stagnate at the farm that she had been currently inhabiting for a week now. She needed to recover before heading back out. The Mustang had been parked behind the house as to not arouse the attention of any passing travelers.

Her eyes turned to her wristwatch, the numbers showing that it was close to eight. Night will fully set in about twenty minutes according to her past observations, which meant that she needed to do her last round outside the house before settling in for the night.

Placing the now empty pear can on the floor and straightening her back to get rid of the stiffness, she picked up her sniper rifle and slung it over her right shoulder. With a low command, the dog also rose and ran ahead of her. Leaving the room, she descended the stairs as lightly as possible, knowing that the house was rather inclined to creak at every opportunity.

The outside was uneventful. The same stillness as the day she arrived here. Some would find it comforting; the marshal was not one of those people. The quiet only unnerved her.

The Collie seemed to enjoy it though. He was prancing around happily, his tail wagging.

They soon returned back inside the house and the woman spent another few hours watching the scenery, before finally surrendering to the call of slumber.

Sleep didn't come peacefully to her. Hasn't for a long time.

 

* * *

A man in a sheriff's uniform was silently running up the road and cursing his foolhardiness.

It was stupid, running in the dark. Rick knew that. But he didn't have a choice. The car broke down several miles back and the undead started appearing in the vicinity of it. He couldn't have remained. He thanked whatever god was still out there that the night sky was clear and the moon shone bright, leaving him with some visibility in the quiet darkness.

But he almost cursed out loud at the weight of the gun bag. It was seriously starting to hurt his back and shoulder.

The trip from Kentucky to Georgia was proving to be more strenuous than he initially thought. Rick had expected that it would take a few days at most, but it's been weeks now. The highways were the worst, always blocked at one point or another. The maps didn't help either. He would sometimes find himself lost and heading in the wrong direction.

But he had to keep going. His family was waiting for him in Atlanta. And he had already traversed the length of two states, he only had to go another 200 km and they would be reunited.

Within minutes, Rick almost cried in relief when he saw the outline of a house not too far ahead. He picked up the pace and soon was at the front gate of the little farm. He cautiously walked the perimeter; his eyes squinted in the darkness for any movements.

Reaching the porch, he gently placed his foot on the steps. The house looked old and abandoned and something about it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Once he reached the top of the stairs, he had failed to notice—it being dark—that there was an indent in the boards and stepped in it. With eyes wide, Rick almost fell over but managed to steady himself just at the last moment. But that didn't stop the old floors from groaning in protest.

_Loudly._

 

* * *

 

_There was a man in front of her sitting at a desk. It was summer time and the windows were open wide. But even then, more was needed. Sitting on the desk was a miniature ventilator, its small propellers creating a cool breeze in the room. The man was hunched over, apparently enraptured in the documents he was writing._

_This was Hell. Again and again dreams like these haunted her since the world ended. She never could get close to him; the more she tried the further away she found herself to be. So, she soon decided to not try anymore and just watch. He never turned around, never acknowledged that she was there. It was like there was an invisible barrier between them, where sound didn't traverse. No matter how much she screamed._

_She thought that she deserved this. That this was her Hell. She would endure an eternity of this. Of being unheard, unseen, always watching, never touching. Suffering in this absolute silence._

_This is what she preferred, wasn't it? To be alone, always walking to her own beat, others didn't matter…What a fool she was. Whoever said 'you don't know what you have until it's gone' was right. She had always taken him for granted, thinking that he would always be there by her side._

_Until one day he wasn't. Until one day that he left her to the silence of an empty void inside her._

_John…_

Thump. Creak.

Eyelids pried opened abruptly revealing unfocused pale green eyes.

The dog was next to her, head lowered and spine arched, growling lowly.

The woman rose up immediately from her reclined position on the dusty bed, nerves going off like fireworks. Her hearing sharpened to such lengths that she swore she could hear a pin drop.

Then she heard it. The click of a doorknob slowly turning.

She hushed the dog and silently rose from the bed, took the muffled gun from her thigh-holster and took the night vision goggles next to her. Putting them on, she activated them and soon the world was basked in green light.

The woman stealthily reached the window to see if there were any cars near the house. She needed to get an idea of how many people she would be dealing with. When she found none, she came to the conclusion that whoever they were or was had been on foot. And this one knew enough not to make any unnecessary noise if he couldn't help it. Thank the gods that the porch stairs were as old as time itself. They made for a great alarm system.

Knowing that the house had only one entrance, she left the room and walked towards the edge of the wall where the second story stairs were. The dog trotted alongside her, his paws barely hearable. If anyone was going to come inside, they only had one way. The house was utterly without light, the marshal having placed thick blankets over the windows. So it was perfect for her. She could see in the dark and whoever was trying to get in, couldn't.

The door slowly opened, letting in the dim light of the moon engulf the entrance of the house. A man, by the looks of it, was her trespasser. He was wearing a dark jacket and what apparently looked like a county sheriff hat on his head, and a large duffle bag leaning down on his back. She could see that behind him was another duffle bag, this one smaller. The woman smirked at the man's get-up and watched as he cautiously entered the house, gun at ready. The man reached at his belt and produced a flashlight. The bright light had her looking away as to not burn her eyes. When the light beam moved from the stairs, the woman looked over the edge of the wall and watched what the presumed sheriff was doing. The man was slowly making his way into the living room on her right.

It was then that she moved. She crept down the stairs with precision, knowing which stairs to avoid and where to place her feet. The dog followed as commanded. Once at the bottom, she rounded the corner and watched his back to get a clearer view of the contents of the bag. She immediately tensed when she saw several riffle barrels protruding from inside the duffle bag.

She mentally whistled. This man was packing.

The woman raised her muffled gun and pointed it at the back of the man’s head. With slow steps she approached him. She wouldn't take any chances with someone that was armed to the teeth, and from the looks of his getup, knew how to use them.

With a deliberate step on a shoddy floorboard she announced her 'guest' that he wasn't alone.

 

* * *

Rick checked the interior of the living room with strained eyes, making sure that nothing was left uncovered. If he wanted to spend the night here, he didn't need a surprise to jump up and bite him in the face.

Unluckily for him, it wasn't the dead he had to watch out for.

All thoughts vanished from his mind the moment he heard the creak of a floorboard right behind him, and not a second later, felt the barrel of a gun touching the back of his head.

"Move and I'll kill you."


	2. Two Boxes of Bullets

She watched the man instantly go rigid.

"Turn the flashlight off and then drop it."

The man did as told after a few seconds of careful thought. The loud thump created a small echo in the house.

"Ma'am, I'm not here to hurt you." His voice was low and had a southern twang to it. It was a pleasant voice, with a hint of authority to it. She was beginning to wonder if the hat wasn't just for show.

"Stretch you right arm to the side and loosen your hold on the gun." She ignored his declaration, and pressed the muffled barrel to the man's head with a little bit of force, to say to him without words not to try anything.

"Ma'am, please listen—"

A nudge on his leg made him stop.

"If you don't comply, I can't vouch for the dog not sinking his fangs into you."

"…Alright."

Once his arm was stretched out, his fingers loosened on the gun, and he supported the weapon with just one finger looped around the trigger hole. The woman took the Colt Python gun from him and placed it at her belt.

"Now the duffle bag. Do it slowly and do not stray your hands from the straps."

"I didn't know that this house was occupied. You have my apologies for that. I will leave and not come back." The man tried to turn his head around, but the increased pressure of the gun kept his gaze forward. "But, I cannot give you this bag."

"I wasn't asking." Her tone was cold and sharp. "The more you resist, the more you increase your chances of getting shot and/or bitten. Which do you prefer, your life or the bag?"

The man sighed, before doing as told. He gripped the straps before slowly picking it up over his head and letting it hang in his outstretched hand.

"Be careful with it."

She took the bag and placed it on the floor gently—who knew what else was in it— pushing it back with her boot.

"Now, open your jacket and take it off. Like before, stretch it to the side."

Once the jacket was off, she snatched it and threw it behind her. There were no gun holsters strapped to his torso.

"Place your hands at the back of your head. Don't move. I will pat you down. Do not think of grabbing my gun, for I will shoot you. Make a move towards me and I'll shoot you. Do you understand?"

The man nodded and did as instructed.

The woman got closer to him and her fingers crazed his lower back, making the man flinch away. She could tell that even through the fabric he could feel her cold fingertips. She had always had an icy touch, something she got from her mother's side—bad circulation in her extremities.

Checking the belt, she found a knife at his side, took it out, and settled it at her belt. Her fingers moved to his front, patting the belt there, but found nothing. She could feel that the man was very tense; once her breath ghosted near his shoulder, his whole body tensed. He was uncomfortable by the breach in his personal space. Patting his left leg down she felt nothing, but on his right was a handle. She took the knife from his boot and stored it at her belt with the others.

"Stranger, take four steps forward. Slowly. Just because you can't feel the gun, doesn't mean it isn't there."

"I can't see."

"You don't have to." She nudged him with her gun. "Do it."

The man did as told and she moved along with him, but stopped at two paces. Once he reached the quota, she spoke again.

"Take one step to your left." He did. "Turn around." Again, he did. "Now sit."

With hesitation, he slowly lowered himself on the couch.

"Lower your hands to your sides and grip the couch edge."

Once his hands were in place, the woman barked orders at the animal.

"Alistair, at the man, hold."

The dog sat in front of him.

She moved behind the lone cushion chair opposite the couch, but her gun never strained from the man’s forehead.

 

* * *

Once Rick turned around and sat on the couch, he had a dim view of his gunman and canine companion. The slit of light coming from the open door only helped to outline the dark figure of the woman and the medium sized shaggy dog in front of him. The sheriff could clearly see something glinting where her eyes should be. Like glass reflection.

The woman moved from the living room entrance, slithering into the dark. He lost sight of her, but he could feel her intense gaze on him.

The woman put him at unease. Her movements were too silent, her voice too calm and icy and all of her decisions calculating. This was defiantly not a civilian in front of him. Considering how she handled the situation up till now, Rick figured she had either been in the law enforcement or army. When she had closed up on him to pat him down, he had wanted to wretch away, her closeness setting his instincts aflame. Her cold hands didn't help either; one would think a cadaver was touching him.

Silence pervaded the room. Not even their breathing could be heard, as if it would break the eerie stillness of the unlit residence. The darkness put him on edge; he couldn't even see his own hands up close if he lifted them.

Having enough of the silence and her intimidation tactics, Rick was about to ask the woman something when she spoke first.

"Is that uniform for real or do you like playing dress-up?" She asked with a hint of amusement. Now that the tense situation from before diminished enough for him to think properly, he could hear the lack of accent in her voice. Northerner, most likely.

"It's real."

She hummed low in her throat, before speaking again. "Why were you walking in the middle of the night, sheriff?"

"My car broke down about five miles down the road and when those things came out of the woods, I had to leave the car and go on foot."

He felt the air around them turn grave. "Did they follow you?"

"No."

"And you know this how? It's dark outside, in case you haven't noticed. And the moon provides only so much visibility."

Rick frowned at the mocking tone that seeped into her voice. "If they’d seen me, they would have made a commotion."

"True. They tend to get rather volatile when they see fresh meat."

The officer narrowed his eyes at the dark humor she seemed to find in him becoming undead food.

"Look, ma'am. I just came in here to find some shelter for the night. I didn't come here to cause any harm." He talked in his 'sheriff tone', the one that he used when trying to placate a violent drunk or a spooked teen to put his weapon down.

"Yes, you've said so once." She drawled out. "Funny thing about that—people who tend to say that, usually are the ones that mean harm. At least in my experience."

"I'm not one of those people. I’ll leave if you ask me to, but…just let me stay until the sun rises. I was lucky gettin' here in one piece. I'd rather not spend the next six hours walkin' in the dark with those things out there."

He heard the woman move to his right.

"What's in it for me? If I let you stay, what will you give me in return?"

Rick couldn't believe that she was actually asking for something in exchange for staying. Except for Morgan and Duane, he hadn't encountered anyone alive on his way here. And Morgan never asked him to repay him for slowly dragging his still recovering body back to health after leaving the hospital. Morgan had done it out decent common sense. He didn't think that people had changed so much in such a short amount of time…Or maybe, this woman had always been like this. Had this cutthroat attitude. God knows, he's arrested his share.

This was not good. People like that were unpredictable. But what could he do in this situation except give in to her demands? He was literally at her mercy.

"I can give you a gun and ammo."

"I don't need a gun." A few seconds of silence followed before she spoke again. "What else do you have in that duffle bag? I saw several shotgun barrels. And don't lie. I will find out soon enough so there’s no point."

Rick wanted to move his arms, get up, do something. But with that gun aimed at him and the dog in front of him, he couldn't. He knew that this woman would shoot him if he made a move or let her dog tear into him. And he needed to stay alive.

"Shotguns, handguns, and two grenades."

"Grenades…" He could hear the pang of surprise in her voice before a low chuckle broke out in the stillness. "Are you waging a war against the wendigos?"

_Wendigo?_ "No, I just like bein’ prepared. You never know who you might run into."

"Didn't help you much, did it?" Rick felt the change in mood and knew that whatever light atmosphere she had around her for those few moments was gone. The hard countenance was back. "I have no use for shotguns. Too loud and ultimately useless. But handguns…what type?"

".45 Colt, Glock .22 and Colt Python."

"Glock…that will do."

He heard her get up and walk towards the living room entrance, but before entering the dim light of the entrance hallway she stopped.

"Your weapons will stay with me." Before he could protest, she cut him off. "I can't have you running around the house equipped with a small army. You might try something stupid like shooting me. I will give them back to you when you leave."

Rick stood up from the couch, realizing that his stick-up was over. Her form moved into the hallway, illuminating her shape faintly. The woman was just a few centimeters shorter than him with shoulder length hair. In her hand was a gun with a silencer. Her back was towards him so he couldn't see her face.

When she reached the duffle bag, she picked it up and slung it over her shoulder.

"Alistair, that'll do."

The dog turned its head towards her before moving altogether. He padded alongside his owner.

She pivoted on her feet and walked towards the ajar door. In the moonlight, Rick could see what the glint on her face he thought he saw was—night vision goggles.

_Army?_

"What's in the other bag?" She picked up the duffle and did a quick scan of the area outside, before returning inside.

"Clothes, food, water. I need that one." Rick stepped towards the hallway, mindful of the dog still watching him.

The woman opened the duffel and searched through it. Rick, annoyed at her disregard of his personal items, made his way towards her. The dog immediately growled.

A disapproving tsk escaped the woman, more mocking than anything. Rick clenched his hands into fists, the woman seriously testing his patience. He was exhausted from the run, his nerves frazzled from running in the dark in an undead infested world. He just wanted to rest.

The woman stilled. Reaching inside she picked up his walkie-talkie. The goggles turned towards him.

"Who are you in contact with?" Her voice was impossibly cold. The gun now aimed at his forehead.

"No one. I used to back home, not anymore.” He raised his hands in an appeasing gesture. “The range don't cover states."

"Who?"

"A man named Morgan."

She paused, scrutinizing him. "I'll keep this." She placed the communicator at her belt.

The woman zipped the duffel back up and threw it at him before shutting the door. The house was now basked in complete darkness.

"Alistair, upstairs."

Rick heard light thumps move up the stairs before hearing her sidestep him to follow the dog. Rick felt something hit him in the chest as she passed. His hand shot up and grabbed the long object. It was his flashlight.

Light finally illuminated the house.

"There is an empty room upstairs on the right, one door down. The first door is the bathroom. The plumbing doesn't work though. If you wish, you can sleep in the living room. It makes no difference to me." She ascended the stairs in the same manner she descended them.

"My room is on the left. Don’t attempt to enter it. The dog will be waiting if you do." She reached the top stairs and before she disappeared around the corner she gave him one last 'advice'. "Unless there is a horde of wendigos surrounding the house, don’t bother me."

Once he heard the door to her room close shut, he sighed heavily. He was stuck in a house in the middle of nowhere with a dog and a woman, now armed to the teeth, who apparently didn't mind shooting living people. This was just his luck…

Before heading up the stairs, he remembered that his jacket had been thrown somewhere. He found it on the floor of the living room. Climbing the stairs, he headed right and soon found a smaller bedroom that must have belonged to a child once. The room was covered in a slight coat of dust. There was nothing he could do about that. Setting his duffle bag on the floor, he sat on the edge of the bed. Settling the flashlight on his watch, he could see that it was almost 1AM.

That gave him five and a half hours until sunrise.

Taking his hat off, he ran a tired hand through his hair and exhaled heavily. He didn't know what would happen in the morning. He didn't know if the woman would stick to her word and give him the guns back, or decide to keep them and kill him. If it came to that he would have to fight her.

Setting his wristwatch to wake him up at 6:30 AM, he lay down on the bed. It only took a few seconds for him to drift off into oblivion.

 

* * *

The woman was sitting on the bed, searching the weapon bag. Alistair was on the floor, facing the door.

It was as he told her. Shotguns, handguns and two grenades. And lots of ammo.

She zipped it back up and leaned gingerly against the headboard, mindful of her shoulder. She had strained it while scrutinizing the sheriff. Moving her shirt collar to the side, she saw that the freshly healed skin was irritated.

She turned her attention to the Colt Python she took off her guest. A distant smile graced her lips as she was reminded of the spaghetti western movies she and her father used to watch. That man sure loved his cowboy stories.

The woman frowned. Why had she let him stay? She could have just shot him and taken the ammunition. No need for all that fuss. But then she would have to spend the night with a recently deceased corpse in the house. The idea was unappealing. Or, she could have just taken him outside and then shoot him, or run him off…but she didn't. She had let him stay in exchange for bullets.

The man had been sincere when he said that he would be leaving in the morning. She didn't even need to see his face, the tone of his voice had confirmed it. Any other man would have at least attempted once to take the gun from her or at least snap at her bullshit. But he didn't. He had stayed calm and collected even through his exhaustion. She admired and hated that. Hated it, because now she had to deal with him.

It would have been easier if she had just shot him.

The woman sighed, placing the sheriff's gun back in the bag and carefully moving it on the floor. Her watch had been set up to wake her up at 6AM. Green eyes narrowed on the dog.

"Watch the door, fleabag."

Alistair wagged his tail in response.

Lying down on the bed on her side, gun placed near her, her fingers loosely curled around it. Closing her eyes, she awaited her private hell to visit her once again.


	3. Hope is Like a Candle Flame

Rick woke to the sound of the alarm going off.

He groaned and rolled over to his side wanting to sleep further even though knowing he couldn't. Begrudgingly, he opened his eyes and shook his head to dispel the sleep haze. Rising up, he gathered his belongings and opened the door to his room quietly. This would be the moment of truth: if the woman would stick to her word or not. Walking the narrow hallway he saw that her room was closed and remembering her warning from last night, decided that waiting downstairs would be best.

Once at the bottom, he heard movement coming from his left. He found the woman in the open kitchen sitting at a table with his bag at her feet. The dog was underneath the table eating from a can of cat food. He recognized the breed now, a fellow police officer had one a few years ago. Rick didn't remember the name, but he knew they were used for sheep herding.

Now in the light of the day, he could see the woman more clearly. The blankets still provided some darkness to the house, but nothing like at night.

She was Native American with straight raven hair that reached her shoulders. If he had to guess her age it would be somewhere between early and mid thirties. Her lips were set in a grim line underneath a straight nose and high cheeks. Rick found her eyes eerie and fascinating at the same time. They were a pale olive with light brown and golden flakes scattered in them. The iris was encircled by a forest green ring that only made the other colors stand out. Underneath her eyes were two prominent dark circles that must have appeared during this new world. A faded white scar decorated her chin.

The woman was wearing a brown leather jacket and underneath he saw a faded black T-shirt with a yellow smiley face on the center splattered with a red stain. Her light green cargo pants were tucked into cherry brown cowboy boots that matched the torn fingerless gloves on her hands. The only accessories she had on was a machete at her belt, a gun strapped to her right thigh and another two at the chest holster, two pairs of small silver hoop earrings and a turquoise beaded necklace with several large fangs hanging from her neck.

She had been beautiful before the world ended, Rick thought. Still was, but now the new world had taken its toll on her and she appeared exhausted; her eyes held too much calculating mistrust and an intensity that put him at unease.

"I'll let you eat before departing. You look like you'd keel over at any second."

He nodded and his gaze lowered towards the dog—Alistair—underneath the table. If he was going to sit down he wanted some insurance the dog wasn't about to attack.

"Don't worry, he won't bite."

As to reassure him, the dog let out a low woof then returned to its meal, no longer interested in the two humans.

Rick slowly sat at the other end of the table. She had remained facing the living room, only her eyes following him, and was currently scrutinizing him from the side. There was nothing in her eyes that could tell him what she was thinking. It was like staring at a reflective surface.

He opened a can of mushroom soup that he had in his bag and ate quietly; every now and then his gaze strayed towards the woman. She had stopped watching him in favor of picking at her nails.

After about ten minutes he finished his meal and took a drink of water from his bottle, before zipping up his bag and standing up. He looked down at her expectantly. The woman lazily raised her eyes at him and after a few moments of scrutiny she rose from the chair, gun bag in hand. She nodded towards the exit. Walking in front of her, Rick opened the chipped door and exited the house. He felt slightly vulnerable with her standing behind him, armed, and stopped shortly of reaching the bottom of the porch steps.

The woman stopped at the top of the stairs with Alistair in tow. Her eyes flitted right and left of the area. The woman seemed to be in alert mode every time of the day, not that he could blame her.

She surprised him—and relieved him—by handing him the duffle.

"Everything is in there, except for two boxes of bullets."

"Fair enough." He took the pack and slung it over his shoulder. He would get his gun and two knives out after he put some distance between him and the house. With nothing else to say to each other, the man tipped his hat in farewell—he still had manners, even if she didn't—and turned around, walking the gravel path leading to the road.

Even at a distance, Rick could still feel the woman's eyes on him.

 

* * *

The woman watched the sheriff for a few more minutes before going back inside the house. She needed to pack her things. She had stagnated long enough at the old farm; it was time to move on.

About twenty minutes later she had all her belongings in the Ford Mustang. Even thought she knew that the car wasn't practical, she hadn't been able to get rid of it. The car called out to her.

She placed the Georgia state map on the hood of the car and tried to figure out where she would go next. Evidently she would head south. Georgia was a farming state according to a travel guide she found. Farms were usually located in large fields with the occasional neighbor or two kilometers away. Maybe if she found such a farm, she could stay there until, hopefully, pass winter.

Alistair circled around her, occasionally nudging her leg. She lightly pushed the dog away with her foot. He was seriously the most attention seeking dog she's ever met; he always wanted to be petted. She wondered how he ever had any work done before. Damned dog had probably wanted the sheep to coddle him.

She folded the map, her course set. She held the door for Alistair to take his place on the passenger side before climbing into her seat. The map was thrown on the dashboard. She placed the keys in ignition and woke up the beast of a car. Smirking to herself, she but on her pair of dark round sunglasses with protectors at the sides and drove off.

She steered the car in the direction the sheriff walked off, the road south taking her that way. After a few minutes she saw the miniature figure of the sheriff walking along the side. Once he heard the rumble of the muscle car, his head turned back. He stood frozen for a second before his arm shot out and waved the driver to slow down. But as the car got closer to him, Rick stopped waving and narrowed his eyes to see the driver.

For a second, when the driver side was parallel with him, they both turned towards each other. The eye contact lasted only a second and the woman thought she saw something. But once passed him, she blamed it on the growing heat.

She stared through the rear-view mirror and saw the sheriff become smaller and smaller. She focused on the road, annoyed at the fact that her mind was still on the man. He was no one to her, why should she care what happened to him. You were on your own in this world.

But as her hand absently grazed the bandage wrapped around her left shoulder, she remembered a time not too long ago, when being on her own hadn't exactly been the best. Her shoulder was still recovering from the wound. She hadn't been able to keep her rifles up for less than half a minute before the pain became too much. That was why she had to resort to handguns and her machete, but even then she could only use her good arm.

She slowed the Mustang down to a leisure pace. If she ended up stumbling into another hostile group, she didn't think she would make it out alive, not with her injury. She needed someone with her, a partner that had fingers and opposable thumbs…at least until she was fully healed.

Looking in the rearview mirror again, the sheriff was only a tiny fly in the distance. Who else could fill that role? It wasn't like she had candidates lining up. Most post-apocalypse people would have tried to lunge for her the moment she turned her back on them and then steal her belongings. But he didn't. He abided by her rules and stayed on his side of the house. The woman snorted derisively, this here was a man still holding to his principles.

Commendable, but foolish.

It wouldn't hurt to ask, she concluded. She wasn't concerned about a bruised ego if he said no.

"What do you think?" She turned towards her only companion for the past month.

Alistair licked his nose.

"Yeah, I thought so."

Sighing deeply, she put the car in reverse and watched as the man increased in size.

 

* * *

The sheriff had stopped when he saw her backpedal and put a hand on his gun handle. He didn't know what the woman wanted and if she decided to revoke the apathetic affinity she showed half an hour ago, he would have to retaliate. The woman was shady, pure and simple.

Stopping a few meters away, she opened the car door and got out. Rick watched her in anticipation. The woman raised her hands in a placating manner, but it only did the opposite.

_What's she playin' at?_

She sighed and pushed the sunglasses off the bridge of her nose and onto her forehead.

"Which way are you headed, sheriff?"

The man in question raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "South."

"So am I. You want a ride?"

"Why?" _Why are you offerin' this when you were basically contemplating killing me not too long ago?_

"A means to an end." She answered without hesitation. "I need a partner and you need a car."

"I can find a car on my own." Rick took his hand off the gun and hung it at his side for now. She was not here with hostile intentions.

"With gas in it? I doubt that." She pointed behind her. "This road stretches on for a good portion from what the map says. And its summer, the heat is going to be scorching once noon hits." Her head tilted towards the smaller duffel bag in his hand. "Those rations won't hold you up."

Rick narrowed his eyes at her. "Why should I trust you?"

"If I wanted to kill you I would have done it already. It wasn't like I didn't have the opportunity to."

"Why do you need a partner?"

She shrugged casually. "The world is a much dangerous place now. Having another set of eyes is advantageous."

The truth of it was that Rick was actually inclined to take her up on her offer. She was right about the heat on one thing. And second, who knew how long it would take before he reached an able car that still had gas in it. The only thing that kept him from accepting was the woman herself.

"Where exactly are you headed?" He himself had only one way to go and that was Atlanta. He wouldn't deviate from it, even at the promise of transportation.

"Nowhere. Anywhere." She shook her head. "Doesn't matter to me as long as it's in the south."

"Well, I'm headin’ for Atlanta."

She tilted her head and regarded him curiously, before straightening up and nodding. "I can take you near the city limits, but I'm not entering it."

"I'm alright with that." Rick found it curious that she avoided a safe zone, but decided not to ask. At least not yet.

"You're going to have to share the space with the mutt." She put her sunglasses back on and pivoted on her heel.

"Wait."

She stopped and turned around.

"What's your name? Can't exactly call you ma'am all the time. My name is Rick Grimes." He tipped his hat in greeting.

"Samara." She said before continuing on towards the driver side.

Rick dumped his belongings in the trunk of the car and rounded it to the passenger side. She hadn't been kidding, the space was cramped and adding him into the mixture would be torturous for the three of them.

The dog looked at him with his tongue wagging, eyes like marbles.

"I don't feel comfortable bein’ near him." He eyed the seemingly domestic dog.

"I told you already, he won't bite." She snorted lightly. She's seen porcupines more aggressive than him.

With a deep breath, Rick took his seat.

Once inside, Samara took one last look at him before starting the car.

"Also, he drools."

Rick scrunched up his nose.

 

* * *

A little over an hour and neither had said anything. Rick was preoccupied with keeping the dog from slobbering over his shirt and giving directions from the map while Samara kept her eyes on the road. Neither was to keen on starting up a conversation.

Ten minutes later, Rick finally decided to say something, that uncomfortable silence that can only arise between two strangers becoming too suffocating.

"Where are you from, Samara?"

" West Virginia."

"You don't sound local."

"That's because I was born in Arizona."

"Well, I lived my whole life in Cynthiana, Kentucky." Rick took off his hat and wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand. "You're Native American, right?"

"What tipped you off?" She deadpanned.

His eyes narrowed in disapproval. "Are you always like this?"

"Like what?"

Rick sighed. "Nevermind."

Her fingers tapped on the steering wheel. "Why are you headed towards Atlanta, sheriff?"

"My family.” Rick pensively stared at the wedding band on his finger, stroking it gently as a sense of longing overtook him. “We got separated before this started and I heard that Atlanta was a safe zone. I believe they headed over there and there's where I'm goin’."

Samara turned towards him and Rick took notice of her somber countenance.

"What?"

"Atlanta..." She started, her head shifting back towards the road. "You won't find anything there."

His brow furrowed. He didn't like her tone; it wrapped coldly around his heart. "What do you mean?"

"When exactly did you hear about Atlanta?"

"Almost four weeks ago. Morgan told me that before the communication lines went down in Kentucky, military broadcasted that people should head to Atlanta for safety."

Samara wondered if she should tell him the truth. Not to spare him the heartbreak, but because she wondered if he would still go with her if he knew. If she didn't tell him they could just keep on going and when they reached Atlanta he would see it with his own eyes. If he broke down then it wouldn't be her problem. But if she told him now, maybe he would stay with her until she was fully recovered since he didn't have anywhere else to go.

Samara wondered how she should tell him. Father always told her that she had never been good with subtlety. The woman shrugged mentally, she wasn't going to mollycoddle the sheriff.

—Band aid it was.

"Well, sheriff. Morgan was wrong. Atlanta fell within the first two weeks of the pandemic."

Samara watched the color drain form his face and his eyes widen with growing dismay. Was that how she looked like when she realized that she would never see her husband again?

"…That's not possible." He choked out, his voice gravelly, deepening that Kentucky accent of his.

"It is. The city got overrun with wendigos and the military bombed it as a last resort to contain the virus. They even gunned down the people that were about to enter the city. If your family was there, then—"

Rick shook his head in disbelief. Hope was fast dwindling. "That…I need to…Stop the car. Now!"

Before the car fully stopped, Rick almost rammed the door down in his haste to get out. The woman watched him walk a distance back, pacing the street like a mental patient. He was shaking his head, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. The sheriff stopped and seemed to finally cave in, his upper body leaning forward, his hands on his knees.

Alistair whined. He was watching the sheriff with his ears lowered and eyes wide with that emotion only a dog can conjure.

Samara turned her gaze to the surrounding area. She gave the sheriff his time, but that didn't mean it was safe to do it in open space. She rummaged through her jacket and produced a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. A cigarette would do her good as the sheriff's grief reminded her of her own.

While in the process of finishing her cigarette, Rick finally decided to return to the car. Her brows rose in slight surprise. This was not the face of a broken man, realizing that his family is most likely dead.

This sheriff was on a mission.

"I'm headin’ for Atlanta."

She blinked. Maybe the shock of the news touched him in the head. "I already told you—"

"I know, but maybe you're wrong. Maybe what you heard was wrong." He took a deep breath and continued. "Or maybe my wife and son weren't in the city when it got destroyed and their somewhere out there. I can't give up just like that. I have to try. I owe them that much."

His determination surprised her. The good little county officer looked ready to take on the Devil if it meant reaching his loved ones.

Wonder _who_ that reminded her of…

 

* * *

Rick watched the scenery fly by. They had been driving for several hours now, stopping to siphon what little gas there was from abandoned cars, and the occasional food or toilet brake. The sun was burning hot, making their stay in the car barely tolerable. The woman didn't want to consume the car's fuel by using the AC, so their only option was rolling down the windows. To Rick's annoyance—and the woman's amusement—his only made it halfway before it got stuck and Alistair kept trying to stick his head out the window, trampling all over him on the way.

He had managed to calm the dog down, who was currently half lying on his lap, asleep.

Rick watched the woman from the corner of his eye. He still didn't know what to make of her. She never tried to engage in conversation and when she did speak, it was curt. Other than some sarcastic remarks here and there, and a taunting smirk or two, she never seemed to show anything other than grim apathy. The woman was an enigma.

Breaking the silence, the Kentucky officer spoke. He needed a distraction from the morbid thoughts circling around his head. "How did you find out about Atlanta bein’ destroyed? You said communications went down early."

"Met a couple in South Carolina that escaped the bombing."

Rick wanted to ask her more of what she knew, but then he remembered something that has been nagging him since last night. One which would explain a whole lot about her.

"Were you a police officer before all this? You're too familiar around guns to be a civilian."

Samara smirked. "Quid pro quo, sheriff. How come you were separated from your family?"

An answer for an answer then, huh? …Alright, he could deal with that.

"About a month before the global outbreak I was shot while on duty and ended up in a coma. Woke up one day to find the hospital empty. There was blood and dead bodies everywhere. Civilians, hospital staff, soldiers. It felt like I stepped into a nightmare, so I did the only thing I could. I ran back home." He remembered the undead bicycle woman, still remembered shooting her in the head and the effect it had on him. "The house was empty. I thought that somethin’ bad must have happened to my family. I wasn't thinkin' straight. Next thing I know someone hits me over the head with a shovel. Woke up to two of my neighbors, Morgan Jones and his son, Duane. That's how I learned that the world had gone to hell and about Atlanta being a safe zone. Three weeks later I was able enough to go on my own; raided the police station and left my hometown. My wife has family in Atlanta, so she probably took my son there."

Samara was silent while listening to his story. How curious…waking up to this world. It must have been one hell of a shock for him. But more important, how did he survive in a wendigo infested hospital with no one to take care of him?

"Do you have any family?"

The corners of her eyes creased. "Had."

"…Did they get bit?"

Samara paused before speaking again; her voice changed to that tone he was all too familiar with. The one that every law enforcement agent had. Detached and composed. "The gas indicator is running low. How long until we reach the next town?"

Rick understood the blatant change of conversation. If she didn't want to talk about it then he had no intention of pressing her.

"Map says there's a gas station about 8km away."

"Let's hope there's any fuel left." She said, signaling the end of their social interaction.

Rick returned his attention to the scenery, unconsciously scratching Alistair behind the ears.

 

* * *

The little gas station they stopped at was as quiet as a tomb. There were three cars parked akimbo, all empty looking. A small diner was across the street from the gas station.

Samara was atop the Mustang and surveying it with a pair of binoculars. Four wendigos were on the road and she could see movement in the diner, but couldn't tell how many. Nothing in the gas station as far as she could tell. She passed the binoculars to the sheriff and hopped off the roof.

"How many do you think there are?"

"Depends. Two family sized cars, one meant for two. If families decided to barricaded themselves inside the diner and gas station…" Samara zoned out for a few moments. "Including the ones shambling around outside…there could be anywhere between five and fifteen."

"Shit."

Samara searched through the back of the trunk and Rick saw her special bag. The one she opened was filled with firearms, and stuffed underneath it was a metal baseball bat. She retrieved the bat, a gun and silencer. Rick recognized one of the rifles in the duffle as a Remington police standard.

"I'm askin' again, were you in the police force?"

"I was a Deputy US Marshal."

"That your gear then?"

Samara nodded. "Like you, I decided to raid the marshal station before leaving Charleston." Samara huffed cynically. "…What was left of it, anyways."

"Here." She gave the sheriff the bat, gun and silencer. "Your gun is too loud."

"Somehow, I pictured you as a soldier." Rick said as he screwed the silencer to the gun and placed it at his belt.

Her lips quirked up. "Not exactly a soldier. I was an Army pilot before I became a marshal."

_Guess my instincts weren't wrong after all_ , Rick thought.

His mind returned to their current situation. He'll ponder her background on a later note. "We need to get the ones outside all out in the open. No sense in walkin' into the middle and makin’ a fuss if others are hidden around. We'd be overwhelmed."

"We can send Alistair to bring them here while we pick them out one by one. No guns unless necessary."

"Is it alright to use the dog like that?"

"He's used to this kind of work." She turned towards the dog reclined on the hood of the car. "Aren't you, mutt?"

Alistair yawned.

Samara shook her head and Rick heard her grumble something about strapping human meat to the dog and sending him out into a hoard.

Hoard?

Rick picked up the baseball bat and leaned it over his shoulder. He looked from her to the dog. "He ain't yours, is he?"

"Alistair? Hell no. I don't like dogs." In her opinion, dogs were flea-infected and filthy most of the times, slobbering and shitting all over the expensive rugs.

"But you're travelin’ with a dog."

"He's useful." She signaled the dog. Alistair pounced off the hood and trotted towards her.

"Where’d you find him?"

"He found me actually." Alistair sat down obediently next to his current owner. "I was in North Carolina scavenging a small town when he just appeared out of nowhere. I tried getting rid of him, but the little bastard was persistent. He brought me to his home; dumb mutt probably wanted me to help his undead owners. I did help them, only not the way Alistair wanted."

Alistair whined. Samara looked at him for a moment and reluctantly patted him on the head.

"There was a book called "Sheep herding with Border Collies" in their library. I figured having him come along would be a bonus. He would be doing the same thing as before, shepherding mindless drones."

But deep down, she knew she wanted some company; didn't matter what kind it was.

"Let's hope he doesn't fail today." Rick said. "So, the plan is we hide, your dog brings them in and we jump out and kill them."

" _You_ jump first. When their attention is on you, I'll follow. Stay out of their reach. After their permanent destruction, we'll have to sweep the gas station. I'm not sure about the diner. There wouldn't be anything there of use after all this time."

His gaze returned to the diner. Besides the undead, there really wasn't anything else. Nothing in there would be edible. The food rotten enough to give you a disease just by looking at it.

"I'm inclined to agree. But we should make sure that there's no way for them to escape. Don't want any surprises." He then paused and looked at her with curiosity. "Samara, what's a wendigo?"

She smirked lightly. "The wendigo is an Algonquian legend. It's a cannibalistic monster that transformed from a person."

"…You don't actually believe that the undead are mythical creatures, do you?"

"Of course not." She frowned, her voice rough. "I call them that because it fits their description."

He put his hands up in a placating manner. For all he cared, she could call them 'Fido'.

Samara huffed. "Ready?"

Rick nodded and looked for a spot to hide in the woods on both sides of the road. Once finding it, he signaled to the woman and went to the edge of the forest and into it.

Samara crouched low and patted the Collie. "Alistair, see those wendigos over there?" She pointed and the dog's eyes followed. "You know what to do. Find. Get back."

The dog shot off like a rocket.

Samara straightened up and took the machete from her waist. Jogging up towards the other side of the road, she hid behind a tree and waited. She really hoped that she was able to swing the machete with only one arm; bullets were hard to come by these days.

Alistair approached the four once alive civilians, catching their attention. As predicted they started shuffling towards him with renewed enthusiasm. Alistair kept circling out of their range of touch, looking for other prospects. Alistair barked twice signaling its master when two came out from behind the gas station. He then circled the diner and found nothing. He returned to the center of the road where the wendigos where. Alistair entered the second stage of his exercise and started retreating, making his flock follow.

Samara smirked when she saw the dog tailed by six shuffling wendigos. He kept egging them on, going back and forth.

Once they passed Rick's hiding spot, he silently got out and bashed the first wendigo over the head, producing a sickening crack. The wendigo fell down permanently. When the remaining ones turned towards the sheriff was when Samara sprang into action.

"Alistair, get back."

The dog moved out of her way quickly. Not a moment later, she planted her machete in a wendigo head, while Rick swung the metal bat at another. Samara sidestepped a wendigo missing half its face, and cut off the arm that reached for her. She kicked the wendigo hard enough for it to stumble to the ground, before planting the machete into its head.

Four down. Two more to go.

When she tried to pull the machete out, it wouldn't budge. With a painful grit of her teeth, she used both hands. Gods, she could feel the muscles grinding furiously against one another in her bad shoulder.

The woman looked over to Rick as he dodged a child wendigo and an obese male one with his rotten stomach hanging out and dragging behind. Rick swung his bat like a baseball pro and hit the fat one over the head. The wendigo stumbled and Samara wasted no time in slashing the child wendigo, effectively scalping him. The undead boy dropped like a stone.

Samara let the sheriff have the last one in favor of her arm. It was pulsing pain throughout her entire upper left side. She cursed the dead man that brought this upon her twice to hell.

Rick hit the remaining dead in the head again and again. It seemed this one was sturdier than the others. The fat one stopped moving after the fourth bash.

Rick exhaled loudly. He straightened and assessed the situation. All the undead were…well, dead. He looked down at the gray bat. It was splattered with blackish blood, bits of decayed brain and skull fragments. It was almost enough to make him throw up.

"You look pale."

Her deep voice brought him back to awareness. "What?"

"I said, you look pale." Samara then grimaced in revulsion. "You're not going to vomit, are you?"

"No. It's just…this doesn't get easier." He waved the bat at the carnage around them.

"I have no problem with it."

Remarks like these put Rick on edge. Not because of what she said—granted, that did add to his uneasiness—but the way she said them. Offhandedly, as if this was an everyday occurrence that she had to deal with.

She wiped her machete on the rags of the female wendigo before sheathing it.

"Maybe it's because you didn't experience it like the rest." Samara massaged her injured shoulder so the pain would fade to a dull throb. "You weren't here from the beginning. You didn't see."

Rick eyed her shoulder. He's seen her fret over it from time to time in the car and she barely used that arm when driving. Alistair, who had been watching them from the sidelines, joined them.

"Even if I was, this is not normal nor should it feel. They were people once."

"Yes… _once_. Those times are gone, sheriff. This," She motioned towards the grizzly scene and desolate surroundings. "This is now. You better get used to it."

"I don't think anyone can get used to this." He had been on the road for weeks now and he still had trouble accepting that the world will never return to its rightful place.

"One of the most valuable traits humanity possesses is the measure to adapt to ones situation, no matter now difficult and bleak it is. Granted, we all have our limits and some are just too weak-spirited to try. But those that can, those are the ones that still walk the earth like you and I." Samara gave him a sardonic smirk. "Like it or not, you are getting used to it sheriff. It's just more gradual for you because you are still holding onto your morality."

"Are you sayin' you got no morals?"

"I didn’t say that.” She shook her head. “I still have principals, only they’ve been reduced to what is most important right now and that’s surviving."

Rick wasn't convinced by her words. One did not have to become a dark shadow of themselves in order to survive. He could never be like that, his conscious would not let him.

"One day, sheriff…you will be confronted with a situation that you cannot resolve like in the before. One that will test you in ways that you wished they hadn't. And sometimes the answer is not always the fair one, hell it's not even the good one, but the necessary one. The trick is to live with the choices and consequences of your actions and not drown in them."

Her ominous words made a sickening dread form in the pit of his stomach. He never wanted to be confronted with something like that. Rick did not want to know what kind of choice he would decide on, because something deep down told him it would not be one of his liking.

"Let's hope that day never comes then."

Samara huffed at the man's denial and walked towards the car. "I'm going to bring the car closer to the station in case we need a quick escape."

Alistair tried to follow, but was shooed off. The dog timidly walked towards the sheriff, tail and ears hung low, and the man—taking pity on the animal—petted him.

He watched as Samara ignited the car and drove slowly towards the town.

"Don't worry." He looked down at Alistair. "She's a hard-ass, but she needs you."

Alistair just looked at him with wide eyes.

"Come on." He walked with the dog towards the car, Samara's words still circling in his head.

The woman in question stopped a few meters from the gas station and was already surveying the area when Rick and Alistair reached her.

"I'll go check the diner with Alistair."

Samara nodded. "I'll see if the cars are empty of any guests."

Rick approached the diner. He could hear shuffling of feet and groaning inside. Rick peeked through the window panes and saw four undead just standing there. When one started sniffing the air and turning towards the window where he was, he left. Rick circled the diner and found no broken window or open door where they could get out.

He returned to the road and saw Samara's lower half sticking out of a red Cherokee Jeep and a corpse lying near the car.

"Was he dead or undead?"

"Undead. It couldn't even lift its arms it was so weakened." Her upper half popped out. "He ate the driver and then starved almost to de—well, catatonic."

Rick didn't need to peek inside the car to know there was probably nothing left of the driver except blood crusted bones.

"We should check the gas station then gather what's useful."

The three of them walked towards the gas station. Before entering it, Samara turned towards the dog.

"Alistair, stay. Any wendigos, come and get me."

Alistair planted himself in front of the entrance.

Rick went in first. The interior had been ransacked, barely anything was left on the shelves. There were two sections and each split up. Once reaching the end, both heard a muffled sound coming from the back room. Because of that, Samara didn't see the still upper half of a wendigo that leaned against a section. The monster opened its glassy eyes, hissed at seeing prey and grabbed her leg. Startled, the woman flung herself away from the cadaver back into the parallel section, hitting her bad shoulder on the way. She groaned in excruciating pain. If she thought it was bad before, it was unbearable now. The wendigo reached for her again, but it never got the chance to touch her as a metal bat connected with its head, silencing it for good.

Alistair came running and fretted around Samara, growling at the corpse in between whines.

Rick looked at her with concern. "You alright?"

"Yeah." She spoke through her tightly clenched teeth. Any more force and she'll chip a tooth.

Rick didn't believe her; the pain on her face was far too evident. Before he could say anything about it, she cut him off and pointed towards the backdoor. They still had to take care of the ones inside.

The sheriff signaled for Samara to stay behind and let him take care of the remaining ones. With a nod, she did. Right now, her left arm was kaput.

With the bat in one hand and his other hand on the knob, he abruptly opened the door.

Samara snickered at what was inside the small office. What was once an old man was now a snarling wendigo tied down to a chair with duck tape. The sight of it futilely fluttering its bound hands to try and reach them made the woman forget her pain in favor for glee. He looked like he was attempting to doggy paddle through air.

"I don't think he's going to bother anyone."

Rick had to crack a smile, the sight comical in a morbid fashion.

"Best be safe than sorry." He said, before bringing the bat atop the once-man's skull.

Searching the other nooks and crannies of the station, they found nothing. The place was clear.

Samara walked outside and scanned the area for threats before heading to the Mustang. Alistair followed closely, keeping his owner in sight. Before climbing inside the car, she checked her wound. The area was fiery red, but the fresh skin was more or less unperturbed. The hit coupled with the strain she exerted on her arm during the fight with the six wendigos had left her arm in a state. If doctors were still running around, they would have sternly objected to her using that arm for anything less than wiping her ass for at least a month.

Unfortunately, she didn't posses that luxury these days.

"At least it didn't open up again." Last time, she had disregarded the depths of her injury and, like a bonafide idiot, she carried on like nothing happened. Biggest mistake ever.

Alistair nudged her leg with his snout and whimpered.

"I'm fine." She scratched him behind the ear in reassurance to which Alistair licked her fingers. Samara made a face and wiped the dog saliva on her cargo pants, internally cursing the dog.

Reaching into the side door, she brought out a small orange bottle. Precious Vicodin.

Rick walked out of the station after looking through the rafters. What was left was useless. Outside, he inspected the pumps for any fuel left. The second one had a small storage, so he took the canister next to the pump and began filling it. Samara and Alistair rejoined him soon and started scavenging through the empty cars for anything useful.

"What's wrong with your shoulder?" Rick called to her. "And don't say it's nothin’. I've been seein' you favorin' that arm every since you picked me up."

Samara exited the Cherokee with three cans of Dr. Pepper's, warm from the heat of the closed interior, and a pack of sunflower seeds. She grumbled as she threw the objects in the trunk of the Mustang.

"Look, I need to know if somethin's wrong. If we get surrounded because—"

The glare directed at him cut his words. Samara closed her eyes and sighed wearily. "I've always believed that humans are by far the most dangerous creatures on this planet. Even now. At least the wendigos are dumb as common dirt and slow to respond." She rubbed her now mildly numb shoulder. The Vicodin was starting to kick in, thank the gods.

"Someone injured you."

"It was my fault. I should have been more alert. Some hillbillies found me and thought I would make good 'game'. Showed those bastards. Unfortunately for me, one of them got lucky before he died and stabbed me with a hunting knife. Alistair jumped him providing me with enough time to return the favor."

There was a dark glee in her grin. Rick felt a cold shiver run down his spine.

He suddenly realized—"This is why you wanted me to come with you."

The woman nodded. "I needed someone to watch my back until I got better."

"Stab wounds take weeks to fully heal if they are deep, more if it hit a muscle." Rick shook his head. "How long has it been?"

"More than a week now. Nothing vital was tagged, fortunately."

"You should be wearin' a sling." Rick told her sternly, his sheriff tone seeping in.

"And what?" She scowled. "Broadcast to every person I run into that I'm easy prey? Fuck that."

"At least wear it in the car."

"Look, as long as I don't strain the arm or hit the area, I'm more or less fine." Samara proceeded to rummage through the two seat car. "As for the pain, I'm managing it."

"With what?"

"Vicodin."

Rick realized that the possibility of her being high while driving was considerate. "You can't be drivin' anymore, you know that right?"

She frowned. "I know. I'm stubborn, not irrational."

"What will you do when we reach Atlanta?"

"Keep moving forward."

"You could come with me." Rick offered. He couldn't in good conscious leave a woman—no matter how competent she was—on her own when wounded.

Samara chuckled dryly. "Sheriff, I think I have a better chance surviving out here with a bum shoulder than you do once you step foot in Atlanta."

They both got back to scavenging in silence after that. After about an hour they managed to fill two canisters of gas, and find some rations. With reluctance, Samara agreed to abandon the Mustang in favor of the Cherokee. With the extra passenger, the Mustang had become rather cramped.

Besides, trying to sleep in it was a nightmare for her shoulder.


	4. Save You Not

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone wants to get an idea of what Samara looks like type search for Julia Jones. The actress is pretty much the basis for my OC. You just have to picture her with olive green eyes.

Time seemed to fly by as the rest of the day was spent driving or turning around once a road was too jammed to pass through. Before they knew it, the sun was setting. Rick was driving the Jeep since Samara was effectively put on map duty. She had followed the sheriff's advice and made a sling out of some old cloths. Her shoulder indeed felt much better like this.

The map she was studying showed that they were about five kilometers away from an interstate motel. Rick agreed to spend the night there. They could clean it up of any undead, board up a room and then leave in the morning.

Stopping at a slight distance of the L-shaped one story motel, Samara could see no motion in the parking lot. The doors to the rooms seemed closed. The woman motioned to Rick to approach the motel. No wendigos came out once the car got closer. Rick got out of the Jeep with Alistair to look around. Samara took her arm out of the sling and slipped into the driver's seat in case they needed a fast getaway. She frowned when she felt something rectangular underneath her ass. Reaching under, she pulled out a beat-up brown leather wallet. Grimes must have dropped it in his haste. She pocketed in her jacket.

The sheriff motioned for her to slowly drive behind him.

Once the parking lot was deemed safe, Samara got out of the car and joined Rick and Alistair. Every room was locked, except for the receptionist's desk. They looked for keys but found nothing. The motel was empty.

Samara looked around; something wasn't right about this place.

"I don't like this." She carefully walked towards the car, scanning the area. "This place…it's too empty. No wendigos, no blood stains, no nothing."

Rick looked around and shrugged. "Maybe whoever owned this closed up when the disease started and fled. Took the keys with him so no one else could get inside and wreck the motel."

"Maybe…"

"Considering that the rooms are locked up I say we stay in the receptionist lobby. No need to make noise out of opening those doors." Rick took his two duffle bags out and headed for the front room. Alistair trotted after him.

"I'll take the Jeep out back so if anyone passes by they won't see it."

Samara got in the Cherokee and started it up, slowly driving at the back of the motel. Once finding a good stop, she parked and leaned into the chair exhaustedly. The keys were pocketed and her fingers brushed against hard leather. Plucking out the rectangular object, she remembered the sheriff's wallet that she took.

With mixed curiosity, she opened the interior light. The wallet was empty except for one item, a picture. It was of the sheriff, looking much healthier and happier next to a woman with long, wavy chocolate hair, pale skin and dark eyes. She was also smiling. _His wife_. Between her and the sheriff was a boy no older than twelve with short dark hair, pale skin, blue eyes and a large smile on his face. _His son_.

_Nice family._

Seeing them happy and untroubled brought a pang of longing in her heart. Reaching into her jacket she produced her own wallet. It was a beat-up, deer hide one. Inside there were two pictures. Two very important pictures.

The last vestiges of her family.

Her callous finger brushed over the photos, eyes swimming with deep warmth. This was one of the few moments where genuine sentiment surfaced from the cavernous depth where they were buried and actually reached her typically impassive face.

What would she give to see them again, at least one last time…

Samara shook her head. This was not the time for remembering. She still needed to check the perimeter.

Once out of the car, she circled the building observing the area with a flashlight. There was still some light outside, no need for the goggles yet. Expect for a hungry possum sniffing around, there was no other movement. But what did alert her were human tracks near the back of the shorter half of the motel. And they weren't the old kind either. But fresh and in the multiples. She inspected the area closer and found three different boot sizes. Two male, one female.

There were a few cigarette buds around the footprint area. Picking one up, she squeezed it between her fingers. The tobacco didn't crumble and the bud was faintly moist. Less than a couple of hours old.

_Shit._

Someone either lives here or passed through here. She hoped it was the latter, because otherwise they had to leave.

In haste, she jogged towards the front desk. The sheriff was arranging the easy chair so it was as comfortable as possible.

"We have a problem." Samara barged in so abruptly, Rick thought his neck would get whiplash. Even Alistair jumped up from the sofa where he was sprawled on.

"What?"

"Someone's been here. I found three sets of footprints and cigarette buds. They're not two hours old." "It’s possible that someone may have passed through here." He didn't see any reason for such urgency. Samara was overreacting.

Samara shook her head as her gut feeling was telling her to leave this place. "No, I don't think so. We have to leave."

Rick returned to his seat. "Samara, it's almost pitch-black outside. Where are we gonna go?"

"Doesn't matter. We can sleep in the car. Take shifts." She looked out the window and surveyed the road for headlights.

"Samara, we're not goin’ anywhere." He sighed. Really, the woman was too paranoid for her own good.

"Sheriff—"

Rick frowned at her. "Even if someone lives here, what do you think they'll do? Kill us?"

_Or worse_ , Samara thought.

"You're overreactin’. Nothin's gonna happen."

Samara felt her tension rising. Remaining here was really a bad idea with the recent discovery. She didn't need some dispute with a possibly hostile group about territory and such. The last time that happened, she ended up with a dagger in her shoulder. Samara was not keen to find out what would happen next time.

"Samara, calm down." There was a cushion stool Rick saw in the other room that would be good to stretch his legs on. "There's been enough excitement for the both of us in the last two days and gettin’ worked up over nothin' is not gonna make things any better. You should sleep. I'll keep watch if it will make you feel more comfortable."

Rebellious ideas ran through her head, of her just taking the car and leaving or hitting the sheriff over the head, load him in the car and drive off. She really did not want to remain here, but she was tired. The events of today coupled with the pain and Vicodin had taken its toll on her. And because of that she made the foolish decision of staying against her better judgment.

Besides, the sheriff might be right. This motel wasn't exactly the best strategic place to live in. There was a forest in the back. If wendigos came through there you'd never see them and be overwhelmed…But then again, not many people would think of such matters when the prospect of four walls, a roof and a bed was on the table.

Samara sighed. Maybe taking the sheriff along hadn't been that good of an idea.

"If we settle here then I'm takin’ the sofa." She resignedly plopped on it with no regard for Rick's choice.

"Yeah, I figured you would." Rick settled in the easy chair and opened his bag in search for some nourishment.

Something rectangular landed on the open duffle, bouncing off the bag of beef jerky inside. It was his wallet.

Blue eyes slid towards her with suspicion. "You pickpocketin' me now?"

"You dropped it in the car." As if she would tell him is she stole anything of his.

"Damn, I didn't even notice." He picked it up and placed it in his pant pocket. "Thank you."

After eating some canned peaches and doing another round around the motel, they settled in for the night. Alistair settled on the mat near the entrance, entering his nightly watch duty. Rick, per agreement, took his night shift alongside Alistair.

It didn't take long for Samara to fall asleep.

 

* * *

 

_The spiritual leader made his offerings to the Holy People._

_A small crowd of distressed people were gathered._

_Samara stood in the group, her poignant green eyes set on her father's unliving body wrapped in a colorful Pendleton blanket with sashes securing it. The body was placed on a wooden flat structure with evergreen boughs arranged around it._

_The blanket was beautifully weaved, she thought. Father would have been pleased._

_Samara knew this place. This time._

_This was her father's funeral. Father had died many years ago while she had still been a pilot._

_Samara hated funerals. Had been to one too many. During her time in the army, in the marshal service and in the family._

_She was sick of the repetition. The cycle starting anew, only difference being the burial rituals._

Rustle.

_She blinked._

Rustle.

_Her eyes narrowed. What was that? Looking around, she saw that no one else seemed to have noticed the strange noise._

Rustle. Rustle.

_The bundle moved._

_Samara froze. Her father's dead body was...moving._

_"Sam?"_

_A muffled voice came from within the bundle of cloth._

_Her heartbeat quickened. Her blood sizzled._

_That wasn't her father's voice. That was…John…_

_—He's alive?_

_Hope flooded through her system, making her hands clammy and shaky. She sprang towards the body without a second thought._

_No one moved or noticed. The funeral continued._

_"John! John?!" Samara crouched next to the body._

_"Samara?"_

_She smiled like a child on Christmas day. Her husband was alive. She had been mistaken. He didn't die._

_She ripped the sashes from the blanket._

_No one moved or noticed. The funeral continued._

_When the blanket was loosened, a curious odor reached her nostrils. It smelt bittersweet and putrid._

_Didn't it take longer for a body to decompose?_

_Why the hell was she even asking that?_

_—Wasn't there something she was forgetting?_

_When the blanket was fully opened, horror stuck the woman._

_Underneath wasn't her husband, but an emancipated, decayed version of him. Clothes were in tatters, flesh was hanging from bones, open bite wounds strewn across visible flesh. His eyes were sunken in and milky white. One arm had been eaten to the elbow, leaving a ghastly stump with crusted blood._

_The thing growled bestially and caught her arm in a vise grip._

_Too strong for a skinny twig of an arm._

_She couldn't scream. Her voice was muted._

_No one moved or noticed. The funeral continued._

_The thing raised its upper body, now eye-level with her. His mouth opened revealing yellow, rotten teeth. Some chipped some missing. A putrid stench reached her nose reminding her of carcasses left out in the sun for far too long. The kind of stench you never get to scrub off your skin no matter how hard you try._

_Samara watched in horror—unable to get away or scream for help—as the thing lunged for her face._

 

* * *

Gasp.

Her eyes flew open.

Samara rapidly rose to a sitting position, her hand wrapping around the handle of her gun and unholstering it. Cold sweat poured down her face. Her eyes darted across the room looking for her undead husband. Her hands shakily held the gun elevated.

_Whine._

Samara looked down and saw Alistair staring at her with ears flat and wide eyes glowing in the low light. Looking over, she saw Rick's form fast asleep in the easy chair.

_Some sentinel he is…_

She breathed out heavily, her body sagging. _It was a nightmare. Just another nightmare_.

She lowered the gun and put it back into its place. Alistair nudged her hand, and Samara unconsciously—reassuringly—petted the dog.

"I'm alright."

With heavy limbs, the marshal rose from the couch, picking her gun and night vision goggles along the way. She needed some fresh air. No way was she going back to sleep after that.

She left her leather jacket behind. The Georgia night air was too humid for long sleeves.

Outside was quiet, eerily so. Not even the crickets sang their nightly song.

Samara walked with Alistair, the dog not wanting to leave her side even after she shooed him away. The woman lit up a cigarette. Smoking felt good. It reminded her of normal times when things weren't so fucked up.

Samara massaged her tired eyes. That nightmare…Shit, how many has she had like that? Too many since the world ended. It wasn't fair…How long will she have to be punished? When will she be able to sleep without waking up sweating like a pig and trembling like a baby chic after a storm? There was nothing she could have done for John. He had been out of her reach, but it seems her subconscious wouldn't let it go. It was telling her that she should have looked for him like the sheriff was looking for his family. Sadly, she wasn't as optimistic as the sheriff.

This was the last thing she needed. Her guilt rising to the surface after all this time. And it was all the sheriff's fault. Him with his resolve and need to find his family. It was uncovering all those things she buried since New York.

Samara winced suddenly. _Great_ …The pain in her shoulder was back.

Finishing her cigarette, she reached for the pill bottle in her pant pocket and popped one in her mouth, swallowing it dryly.

Leaning on the wall of the motel, she waited for the numbing effect of the magic pill. She could almost hear her muscles sigh in relief. Pale green eyes went in and out of focus, her brain starting to go on vacation. Samara must have been staring into space for quite some time, because when she came to, Alistair was dumping against her pant leg.

Bringing her foggy brain to an acceptable standard, she watched as the dog ran forward and back, looking at the road. There was something rumbling in the distance.

It took Samara a few seconds to realize that the rumbling sound were, in fact, car engines.

There were three pairs of twin lights rolling into the motel's parking lot.

Cars.

People.

_Shit!_

Samara called Alistair to her and they both hid behind the corner of the longer half of the motel. She knew it! An empty motel was too good to be true. There was always a catch. The woman looked over the corner toward the receptionist's area.

—Was the sheriff still sleeping? Didn't he hear the cars?

The marshal's mind was reeling. Maybe these people were just regular folks trying to find shelter in this world. Not everyone she ever encountered before had been bastards that wanted her belongings. The group exited the cars and she knew that her luck craped out. The men looked like the ones that stabbed her. Gun-toting rednecks with an inclination for violence and alcohol.

She looked towards the receptionist's lobby again. Still no movement.

If the sheriff wasn't getting the hell out of here, she was.

Samara watched as one of the armed men looked towards the sheriff's location and said something to the others. All except one moved towards the receptionist room, weapons ready. All it took was a few seconds before she heard shouts. And one of the voices was the sheriff's.

Now, the situation looked bad. There were six of them against two and a half. Four men and two women. One of the women looked more like a mountain troll than an actual female, and the other was a teenager. The men varied between 50's, 30' and 20's. Considering that they had Grimes at gunpoint that left only Alistair and her—with a bum shoulder—against six.

She could shoot the one that was outside, but then the others inside would keep the sheriff hostage and demand that she walk out hands empty. Or she could try to barter with them, give some of her supplies in exchange for her human companion.

Samara snorted. _Like that's going to happen._

The marshal turned on her heel and silently jogged towards the parked Jeep. Alistair followed uncertainly, his head kept turning back. She knew he wanted to go after the sheriff, but the situation was too 'sticky' for her tastes. The only thing she would be losing is a duffle bag with some food and water, and bathroom necessities. While on a regular day she would have gone after them, but with her shoulder like it was, she wasn't in a daring mood.

Samara gently opened the car door and held it open for the dog.

Alistair stood unmoving.

She motioned towards the interior of the car more urgently.

He made a small advance and stopped.

Her patience snapped. "Get in the car or I will eat you!"

She'd never seen Alistair run faster.

With a huff, the woman followed. _Damn flea-bitten mongrel._

Samara ignored the dog's whines as she started the car gently. With her hands on the steering wheel, she was about to drive out of the motel area as silently as the car would allow when a slither of guilt crawled into her chest. She saw no reason to help the sheriff. Most likely by now he was dead, or soon to be. His quest for his family ended a long time ago when Atlanta got bombed. He should be grateful, in death they would be reunited again.

Remembering the picture of his family she wondered. What if they weren't dead? What if they had escaped the blast, or maybe never even entered Atlanta? What if they were waiting for him? With the same fervent hope that the sheriff possessed.

Like she had when she raced towards New York.

Samara scowled. _When did I become so goddamn sentimental?_

She might feel some guilt for leaving the sheriff, but unfortunately for him that wasn't enough to persuade her.

Before driving even a foot in front of her, she noticed something vital. Something that would have been obvious if she didn't have drugs in her system. She was feeling chilly. It only came to her now that she wasn't wearing her leather jacket.

Her wallet had been in that jacket.

The photos—

_Fuck…_

_Shit._

_Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!_

Her head hit the steering wheel with a groan. She couldn't leave without those pictures. They were the only thing she had left of her family. She was afraid that if she didn't have those reminders, she would forget their faces.

That could not happen. Her memories were the only thing keeping her sane.

—The only thing stopping her from putting a bullet through her head.

Alistair placed his head atop her shoulder, his damp snout against the cool skin of her throat. Samara rolled her eyes. _Damn emotional dog._

"I guess now I have to save the sheriff." She grumbled, her head still lowered.

The dog huffed.

Gripping the steering wheel, she cursed the doped-up, forgetful moron she was and got out. She had an idea. It was insane, and there was a pretty good chance she'll kill him in the process, but it was the only thing she had right now.

Thank the gods she had that pill in her system; otherwise she didn't think she would do it.

Opening the trunk door, she rummaged through the bags before she found what she wanted. Five bottles consisted of a mixture of 160 proof Stroh, cooking oil and petrol—to make bombs out of. Samara wasn’t exactly sure they would explode since she never had a chance to use them, but she thought that if she added enough flammable contents then that will be a good start.

She took two bottles and tore her shirt sleeves off, stuffing them down the open lid.

Inventory: two Molotov’s, Remington 700PSS sniper rifle, Glock 22, hunting knife, night vision goggles.

_Good enough._

Samara needed to draw out the people inside the motel where she could get a clear shot at them. Placing the goggles over her eyes, she motioned for Alistair to follow. They silently sprinted towards the shorter half of the motel.

Once she approached the back of the receptionist's room, she heard voice flowing through the open bathroom window.

"Is there anyone else here with you?" A deep baritone male voice resounded. It was scratchy from too much tobacco chewing.

Grimes was still alive…for now.

"No." The sheriff's voice seemed slightly out of breath and in pain.

"Bullshit. Wha', don't tell me you wear women's clothin’?"

It seemed the 'gentleman' found her jacket.

"You don't show up in these photos. So, where's the woman?"

Her eyes narrowed. The man had his filthy hands on her pictures. _Unforgivable._

Samara peeked through the small window and saw only their shadows reaching the doorway. Good. They were in the reception room, nowhere near the next room.

Passing under the window, she turned the corner. There were cardboard boxes stacked and some old newspapers. Passing them, she saw that the sentry was still out overlooking the parking lot. It was a young man no older than twenty. There was a wooden bat in his hands on which his fingers anxiously tightened and loosened over. If Samara had met him before the end, he would probably be a student, maybe a little bit too shy for his age. And far too jumpy.

Samara set the Molotov's down behind the boxes gently. She needed to get rid of the sentry.

She turned towards the Alistair and pointed towards the man. "See that man? Walk up slowly, feign hurt. Show me." Alistair raised his paw and made a motion of walking with a limp.

Good, he remembered that command. She had taught him that in case she ever needed to rob someone.

"Good. Then get back. Rein him in."

Alistair did as told and limped softly towards the man, stopping a short distance and letting out a small whine.

Samara moved behind the boxes, thankful that the moon didn't reflect on this part of the motel.

The sentry jumped and turned towards the sound, bat raised. When he saw it was just a dog, he exhaled in relief and smiled.

"Hey there, little fella. What's wrong?"

Alistair whined some more and took a step gingerly towards him, his tail between his legs. He looked the picture of helpless dog that called out to you to care of.

_Good boy._

"You hurt, boy? Come here, let me look at you."

Alistair didn't move and when the young man walked towards him, Alistair stepped back.

"I'm not gonna hurt you."

Samara waited until Alistair drew the kid passed the boxes where her crouched form was. When his back was towards her was when Samara stood up and unsheathed the knife. Alistair stopped and waited for the teen to catch up to him. She moved silently without taking her eyes off him, and cautiously moved towards his tense back.

The boy set his bat down and before he could crouch to inspect the Border Collie, a hand was placed over his mouth and a blade cut into the tender skin at his throat. The teen struggled, clawing at his attacker and trying to cry out through the fingers. Only muffled sounds came out. Blood cascaded down his pale throat and into his shirt as the knife traveled from one side to the other.

The teen's protest diminished by the second until they fully stopped and his body went limp.

Samara gently eased him to the ground then stabbed him in the head so he couldn't return. She sheathed the knife back into her boot, and with one last look at the boy, she left for the Molotov's. It was just bad luck on the kid's part.

One of the bottles she took. Alistair remained as Samara walked low towards the corner and gingerly stepped towards the cars, keeping herself a slow as possible.

There were three cars: an SUV, a Ford and a beat up old truck that she had no idea what brand it was. The SUV was parked the closest to the entrance of the motel's reception are, while the Ford was right behind it. The truck was a few feet beside them.

Stepping at the back of the old truck, she lodged the Molotov inside the car’s gas tank before returning to her original post.

Samara signaled Alistair to follow her as she backtracked and picked the second bottle, heading towards the back of the motel. She stopped at the back of the room next to the reception. Room 1.

Placing herself a few meters away from the motel, she took out her lighter and lit up the cloth sticking from her concoction. She really did hope that only Room 1 would blow up.

With a heavy exhale, she raised the bottle with her good hand. _Junior Baseball Championship arm, don't fail me now._

The marshal threw the lethal cocktail and watched as the only flicker of light in the dark sky rose then fell, fell, fell right through Room 1's window.

_Crack_.

The room burst in ravenous flames devouring the motel's wooden walls.

_No explosion?_

A moment later, Samara heard shouting and screams; that was when she ran. She and Alistair headed towards the parking lot. Once they reached the corner, Samara motioned the dog to stay.

She peeked around the corner and saw that three were out, and one was holding the sheriff. They were coughing the smoke out of their lungs and shaking the pieces of timber off their clothes. The sheriff looked mostly unharmed, a few scratches here and there. Samara heard some more screams from inside.

Soon the last three joined. There was a burly man holding Rick's bag of guns and a shotgun. The second one, the troll-woman, was dragging a smaller man out of the burning building. He didn't seem conscious. Samara noticed his scorched clothes and burn marks on his thigh and hip.

"Where the hell is Bret?! Wasn't he standing guard?" The teenage girl screeched.

Crouching low, Samara aimed the Remington to the Molotov on the gas tank. Her finger pulled the trigger and the bullet was let loose to find its intended target.

_Boom._

The truck blew up sky high. _Holy shit!_

Screams again. The force of the blast knocked some of them off their feet. It even stunned Samara for a few good moments.

As soon as her awe disappeared she aimed the sniper rifle at the ones still standing. Five bullets left.

"Sheriff, stay down!" Samara bellowed.

Rick didn't even think about moving from his place on the cold concrete.

One bullet hit the big woman in the head, splattering a portion of her cranium on the pavement. The downed man she was carrying fell too, having no more support.

Second bullet hit the burly man in the chest.

Third bullet hit the girl in the head.

Fourth bullet hit the man that had been holding Rick in the shoulder.

Two people left. Samara moved from the corner out into the open. The man that kept a hold of Rick picked up his handgun and shot her way. A bullet landed right near her foot making Samara’s heart jump into her throat. Reaching the Ford's back, she hid behind it while the man kept shooting frantically at the car.

_Come on, come on! Empty the magazine!_

Three bullets hit the car before she heard the click of an empty magazine. Her sniper rifle reared its barrel out of its hiding and shot the man in the cheek.

One left. No more bullets.

Samara threw the rifle over her shoulder and approached the scene cautiously. All dead except for the sheriff and the burnt man. Unsheathing her knife, she stabbed the man in the head.

The crackle of the burning car was the only noise that echoed in the night.

Samara whistled sharply for Alistair.

"Are you alright?" She approached the sheriff who was now on his back and rolling his eyes and blinking rapidly as if dispersing a haze.

"Yeah…" He coughed.

"I'll be right back."

Samara walked over the dead bodies and ran into the smoking motel. She put her forearm over her mouth and nose to not breathe the fumes in. The dense smoke barely provided any visibility, but she managed to find her jacket before tears blurred her vision. Half of it was already burnt to ash. The useless half where her wallet wasn't.

Samara reached into her burning jacket gingerly to retrieve her wallet. It wasn't there.

—It wasn't _there_.

Samara froze, dread falling like a stone in her stomach. Looking around, she only saw pieces of wood and smoke. In a blind panic, she upturned the furniture in search. She couldn't find it and the motel was threatening to fall atop her.

Samara could hear the structure creaking, it being on its last limb. With an anguished cry, she ran out of the burning building before the roof fell down. Samara coughed out raggedly, her irritated eyes red and watering freely and not all of her tears were from the burning sensation.

The only thing she had left to remember her kin was now ash in a shitty motel in the middle of nowhere Georgia. The photos were gone. She had nothing of her former life anymore.

She felt _dead_ inside.

The woman sniffed and walked towards the sheriff with lead limbs. The man was now leaning his upper half against the tire of the SUV. Alistair was with him, licking the sheriff's face. The sheriff swatted the dog away, his lips turning into a grimace.

"Stop that." Samara hissed angrily and pushed the mutt out of her way. She crouched low and gripped the sheriff by his shirt lapels, bringing him forward so they were face to face. "Sheriff, listen to me. Where's my wallet?"

"What?"

She slapped him.

"The hell?!" He shouted indignantly. Why the hell was she slapping _him_?

"Where's my wallet?" Her voice was harsher.

"What wallet?"

Clouded gaze. Memory distortion. Slurred talking.

He most likely had a concussion.

Samara grimaced and let him go—more like threw him against the tire. The sheriff let out a groan of pain. She leaned on her haunches, exhaling loudly. Her eyes were stinging again.

She pushed the tears back as rapidly as they came. She could rage and howl as much as she wanted after they were out of their current predicament.

"Can you stand up?"

"Yeah. Just do it gently. My whole body's sore." Now that it was over, Rick could feel the adrenaline leaving his body and the pain finally starting to rear its ugly head.

Samara put one hand around his waist and with the other she slung his arm over her shoulders. Before she could help raise him up, Rick unholstered the Glock at her thigh and aimed.

The deafening shot made her insides shrivel up.

Samara watched as the burly man—the one she thought she killed—fall down permanently as a trickle of blood slid down his brow. The gun aimed at her dropped with a metallic clack.

"He was gonna shoot you." Rick's voice waivered as his gun arm dropped.

Samara exhaled heavily and holstered the Glock. That fat bastard would have shot her if the sheriff hadn't killed him first.

Her eyes narrowed suddenly. That man was the one that was waving her wallet around. And the sheriff shot him…

_Goddammit!_

She let go of the sheriff, further causing him pain as he hit the pavement. Again. Samara ignored his cry of pain and curse at her person. The body of the burly man was turned over and Samara patted him down. Except for a pack of cigarettes—which she pocketed—and a lighter, she found nothing. Her wallet wasn't there.

She proceeded to search for it at the other bodies.

Nothing.

Samara pinched the bridge of her nose. If the sheriff hadn't shot him, she would have had some closure as to where the damn wallet was. She felt like strangling the man.

With a sigh, Samara stood up and looked towards the burning building. The photos were less than dust by now, but there was only a feeling of numb tranquility as she stared at the flames.

—Fire _really_ was beautiful.

"Samara!" The sheriff's hoarse voice snapped her to awareness. She realized that she had been staring at the fire like some pyromaniac worshiping the flames.

"I'm coming." Her voice was tired. She felt tired.

Samara helped the sheriff stand on shaky legs. With his vision slightly akimbo, he staggered and leaned against the SUV.

"Stay here. I'll bring the car around." She turned to the dog, which had been standing guard beside the sheriff, and addressed him. "Stay with him."

Rick stood there, his mind numb. Blue eyes stared at the burning car with an unfocused gaze. Vibrant flames curled around the scorched metal of the truck leaving only the skeleton.

He didn't know how much time passed until he heard the screech of the Cherokee Jeep stop somewhere close. A pair of hands soon took a hold of him and helped him to the car.

Samara opened the car door for him, and he climbed into the passenger's seat. Next, she opened the back door for Alistair and went searching for the sheriff's guns and the motel people's firepower.

This took a little more time than she wanted. The explosion must have alerted every wendigo in the area. Right now she and the sheriff were smack in the middle of a hotspot. And if wendigos surrounded them…She didn't want to think about it.

Once inside the Cherokee, Samara stepped on the accelerator and the car screeched in its tracks before sprinting forward and out of the motel's parking area.

Silence engulfed the interior of the Jeep. Rick looked over himself with hazy eyes and noticed several cuts and bruises along his arms. There was dust and ash plastered over his clothes. He looks over the other human occupant of the car, but she took no notice of him.

"Where the hell were you?" He surprised himself on how drawled out his voice was.

Samara turned towards him a blank face. "I think you're experiencing a concussion. Did you get hit over the head?"

_I did?_ His vision was a little blurry, and there was a buzzing in his head, but other than that, nothing. "When the truck blew…hit the pavement…hurt…" He indicated towards his head.

Samara's attention returned to the road. "Don't fall asleep."

The woman's voice soon became muddied and everything in sight was going in and out of focus. He must have blacked out at some point because he felt himself being shaken. He mumbled out that he was fine, that he was awake, but soon fell into the ignorance of the unconscious realm.


	5. I'm Not a Good Person

Blue eyes revealed themselves from behind tired eyelids.

The low ceiling light came in and out of focus, before finally settling. His head throbbed dully and his body felt heavy and sore. Looking around Rick attempted to see where he was. It looked like the interior of an RV and he was lying on a bed.

_What happened? How did I get here?_

He clenched his eyes in concentration. He and Samara had found a motel. They decided to stay. There, some people with shotguns kicked him and took his weapons. And then…Then nothing.

Reaching his head with a heavy hand, he felt linen cloth wrapped around his head. He poked the back of his head only to wince in pain. There was a tender lump there. Guess that explained his memory loss.

Slowly getting up, he was mindful of his bruised abdomen and dizzy head. Walking slowly towards the entrance of the RV, he spotted a trail of blood leading from the driver's seat towards the exit and a bottle of water on the small kitchen table. He took a sip from it, his throat parched. Taking the bottle with him, Rick opened the door and immediately shielded his eyes from the red and orange hue of the setting sun.

He waited until his eyes readjusted to the bright colors and took a step down the stairs. Alistair was reclined atop the hood of the Cherokee parked near the RV. His head snapped up when Rick appeared.

"Sleeping beauty is finally awake, I see."

Looking up towards the roof of the now revealed Winnebago, he spotted the marshal relaxing in a lawn chair with a crooked cigarette between her lips and a black cap resting on her head with Marshal written in faded white bold letters. Her sniper rifle was leaning against the chair, the night vision goggles were at her feet and an open book was in her lap. The other arm—the injured one—was in a sling. A faded out green army jacket was draped across the back of the chair with a pair of binoculars hanging from it.

"Samara…Where are we?" He looked around; they seemed to be in a deserted park. Beside the Winnebago, there was another RV a distance away.

"An RV park." She said it as it was supposed to be obvious.

A twinge of annoyance crawled into his skull making his head throb. "I can see that, but where exactly?"

"About 60 km east of Atlanta." She exhaled a trail of smoke. "I had to drive around for a while before I found this place. You kept going in and out of consciousness."

He looked towards the sunset. "How long have I been out?"

"Almost a day." She said still without moving her eyes from the pages in her lap. "How's your head?"

He reached a hand at his head, touching the bandage. "Sore. Vision's hazy."

She searched through her jacket pockets. Producing an orange pill bottle, she threw it at him. Since his vision was clouded, Rick didn't catch the bottle, it bouncing off his shoulder. He looked at the woman with a glower. She was pushing it; she damn well knew he couldn't see it right, let alone catch it.

Rick lowered himself gently and picked up the bottle. He looked over the label. Tylenol.

"For the headache. Take one only." She took another drag out of her cigarette. Then she picked up the pair of binoculars and brought them to her eyes to scan the area. "Hungry?"

He shook his head lightly. "Not really."

"You need to stay hydrated. If you want to eat, eat granola bars. I don't want you getting sick and having me clean up the Winnebago."

Rick nodded before his gaze sharpened on the woman atop the RV. "Samara…What happened?"

"What's the last thing you remember?"

"Those people wakin’ me up and then takin’ my bags. You missin’. Then it's only bits and pieces. You askin' me questions. That's about it."

Samara put the binoculars back at their place and returned to her book. "The questions were to keep you awake and to assess the extent of the concussion."

"Yeah, I figured that. Doctors had done the same thing a few years ago. What happened in between?"

"Killed the guard. Threw a Molotov in the room next to you and the others. When everyone scurried out, I blew up one of the cars with another bottle to create confusion then I killed those people. Not all of them though, one still held onto life—the leader, he almost shot me. You killed him with my gun—on a side note, you're a good shot when you're impaired—then I got you in the Jeep and drove off."

Images passed through his mind. The room next to them blowing up. The people in the motel getting gunned down one by one. Rick then remembered shooting the oldest man of the group in the head. Climbing in the car and then Samara waking him up and asking him questions.

His hands found purchase on his hips in what Samara would eventually call his 'officer mode'.

"When you threw that bomb…" He looked sternly at her. "Did it ever occur to you that you might kill me in the process?"

She looked down at him and shrugged. "It passed through my head…But that idea was better than my original one."

"Which was?"

"Driving the Jeep through the motel. Run down the bastards in it. Hope I don't kill you along the way."

Rick ran a hand through his hair. This woman was infuriating. She was so calm in explaining her motives, as if she was chatting over changing sheets instead of several peoples' lives. He was starting to think that she was deranged, that maybe a part of her was broken.

"In my defense, I was doped up on Vicodin."

He shook his head. "I'm beginnin’ to wonder if you are either just incredibly reckless or just plain crazy."

"Well, you wouldn't be the first to think that." She chuckled dryly; smoke escaping from nostrils. "What does it matter anyway? You got out alive. That's all that’s important."

He shook his head before glaring at her. "You killed six people!" How in God's name had this woman been a marshal? "They weren't gonna kill me, they were just scared, tryin' to survive as best they could. You know how procedure goes. Why didn't you try to talk to them first?"

"Talk? As in negotiate?" Her eyebrows rose in mocking gesture, but her eyes remained flat. "I don't negotiate with hostile individuals."

"That's it?" His eyes widened incredulously. "You killed them because you find it inconvenient to open your mouth and say a word?"

"No, I killed them because that was the easiest way to getting my possessions back."

Rick just stood there not knowing what to do or say. He had never encountered someone this cold-blooded before, so he was understandingly put off. His mind flashed at the young girl, the back of her head splitting open like a melon when the bullet hit her. She hadn't done anything to no one. She didn't deserve to die like that.

"There was a girl—"

Samara cut him off with a cruel glare. She took the burning cigarette out of her mouth and threw it over the Winnebago. Her voice was cold enough to make him tense in caution.

"Do you honestly think if I had politely asked them to hand you and the guns over, they would have done it with a smile of their face and 'Yes, ma'am. Right away, ma'am'?" She mockingly imitated a southern accent. "Forget the girl, forget those people. Doesn't matter if their good or bad. The moment someone points a gun in your face, you shoot them before they get the chance to pull that trigger. Otherwise, you are nothing but a dead fool."

Her eyes narrowed further and she spoke in a low tone. "Wake up, sheriff. There are no laws anymore. I won't be prosecuted or taken to jail for what I've done. The world will never return to its former self. You need to stop thinking like before. Believe me, those people would have killed you, either by shooting you or leaving you in the middle of nowhere with no supplies or protection."

Rick just stared at her. Until now, he hadn't met with anyone other than Morgan and Duane, so he wasn't aware how much people have changed. He knew from his experience as an officer that when people got desperate they were able of doing some dark things. But those people had always been the ones on the other side of the law. The men back at the motel seemed like regular folks, pushed into living a hellish world.

The girl, she had looked at him in sympathy and had tried to speak up to the burly man along with one of the younger men. Not everyone was as hardened as the woman atop the RV. There was still decency in this world.

"Maybe you're right. Maybe everyone is out for themselves and will kill anyone for anything." He shook his head slowly. "If that were true, then I wouldn't be here. Morgan would have left me for dead, would have never wasted food and time on me to get me back to health." His blue eyes focused on her with intensity. "You would have shot me the moment I entered that farm house. You would have never come back for me."

Samara was silent, staring at him indiscernibly.

"You're wrong. You had no excuse for killin' those people, Samara. There are always other ways that don’t involve shootin’ someone." His blue eyes glimmered gravely in the dying sun. "I appreciate that you came back for me, but you could have solved it without bloodshed."

"I didn't come back for you."

Samara leaned in forward, her elbows on her knees. "I left my jacket in that room. There was something inside it that I couldn't leave without. That's the only reason you're here, sheriff."

Rick listened, and once she was finished, he shook his head with a heavy exhale. Truly this woman was something else. If the undead didn't kill him, then she would. But at least now he knew with who he was dealing with.

Samara was selfish. Her person and her interests were the only important things to her; everyone else was either fodder for the undead or for her guns. Everything else was of no importance.

She was not averse to killing. What happened at the motel was proof of that.

Among that, the most important aspect of Samara was the fact that she was a pragmatist and an opportunist. She took advantage of a situation if it was profitable for her in whichever way. Case in point: she took Alistair with her because he was useful with reining in the undead and fooling the living, she let Rick stay overnight at the farm in exchange for ammunition, she only brought him along because she needed another set of eyes to watch over her convalescent self, she would have left him behind to preserve herself if it weren't for whatever was so important that she couldn't part with. Rick knew that as long as he remained useful, she wouldn't throw him off into the deep end, so to say. Was it evil? Not really. Cruel? Most likely.

This realization had been circling in his brain for a while now, but he clinged onto the hope that maybe he was wrong. Alas, his hopes still haven't come to fruition.

Rick knew that the fastest way to get to Atlanta was through the marshal and as long as he didn't put himself into a position where she perceived her life to be in danger, then they would be alright. On any other occasion he would not have walked with someone like Samara unless it was necessary. It wasn't that he disliked the woman, it was the fact that he could not trust her.

Alas, his options were limited and he was too close to Atlanta to part ways now.

"Whatever your reasons were, I'm still obliged to you." He was watching her steadily. There was a light in them that made Samara straighten out in her chair.

His blues no longer regarded her with the same light as before.

"You understand then? How things are?" _Between us._

"Yeah, I'm startin’ to." He nodded, never breaking eye contact. And I don't know if I like what I'm seein'. "We still good for Atlanta?"

"My path still steers me by Atlanta. Come with me or not, that's your choice. Just like before."

Rick nodded.

He stepped inside the RV and closed the door.

 

* * *

Rick had stayed in the Winnebago for the next three hours, nursing the dull pain in his head. As he stared at the blood trail on the floor, the memory of him shooting that man in the head kept repeating itself. He's never killed anyone before, alive anyway.

Once that realization sank into him, his hands shook, but surprisingly his mind was numb. Maybe it was because of the pills or because he had already killed so many undead that it didn't matter if he killed a breathing person.

The latter was frightening.

He remembered something while contemplating what he felt when he shot that man. Samara had slapped him at one point while demanding a wallet.

_Wallet…_ he remembered the leader of the group picking up Samara's jacket and then taking out her wallet. He waved two pictures in his face wanting to know where his partner was. In the two pictures, a much different version of Samara was in.

When the room was engulfed in flames, he had found the pictures from where they had scattered on the floor. Something told him that the marshal would be mighty pissed if she lost those photos. Because he knew if he lost his own, he would be beyond upset.

He had been right. She had been frantically mad, running into the burning building and then searching the bodies for her wallet. He remembered that instance when she finally gave up her search, how she had looked at the burning motel. Her eyes gleamed like marbles in the glow of the fire and were as hollow as a doll's.

The way she looked at that fire made him reach out to her. Not so she could help him get up, but to make her stop looking like that. Stop whatever madness was running through her head. Because that was what a person looked like when they realized they had just lost everything. When they were contemplating joining the fire.

—It chilled him to the bone to see that look on her.

Reaching inside his pant pocket, he fished out the two pictures. In his haste in pocketing them, he had creased them. Straightening them out as best he could, he walked over to the small table where the camp lantern was.

The first picture was a younger Samara—maybe somewhere in her early twenties—with a middle-aged man. The man had his arm over her shoulder, while Samara had hers over his waist. They were both smiling happily. Samara had dog tags around her neck and the man wore a law enforcement badge on his chest.

The second picture was of Samara and an African-American man. The picture was probably three or four years old. The man was in his mid thirties, with short dark hair and dark hazel eyes. His lips were molded into a crooked smile. Samara's palm was cupping his face while her lips were pressed against his cheek. There was a wedding band on her finger.

She looked so different, Rick thought. He had been right; Samara had been beautiful before the outbreak. She had been healthier, her eyes weren't as sunken in as now and her cheeks were slightly fuller. But what Rick found fascinating was the fact that she was smiling. Not tauntingly or coldly, but a genuine smile. A happy one.

It was nice to know that she hadn't always been as hardened as now. That at one point, she had been normal and affectionate to others.

When he felt the RV sway lightly, he slid the pictures in his shirt pocket. Samara opened the door in the next moment and entered. Alistair raced inside, passed him and jumped on the bed. He circled a spot in the center of it and laid down, curling himself into a ball.

"Your place is on the floor, fleabag."

Alistair's opened his eyes for a second then closed them with a yawn.

Placing the sniper rifle, binoculars, goggles and book on the small table, Samara sat down opposite Rick. The sheriff read the cover of the book, 'The Shining' by Stephen King.

Opening a granola from her pocket, Samara started munching on it ravenously. Rick accepted the offered bar and ate it slowly. They both ate in silence.

Samara finished hers first and removed the arm sling. She checked underneath the bandage around her shoulder.

"How's your shoulder?"

"It's fine now." She didn't even want to remember how she felt after the Vicodin and adrenaline wore down. "I'll need to take another pill in an hour or so."

"When was the last time you took one?"

She checked her watch. "Five hours ago." She then saw the way he was looking at her wounded shoulder with a mixed expression. She huffed in slight indignation, knowing what was going on in that head of his. "Don't worry, I'm not popping them. I try not to give into that temptation."

"They all say that in the beginnin’." He drawled.

"Well, I'm being honest. Besides, I only have two left. I'll be on the dry soon." She grimaced, already feeling the agonizing aftermath.

Pale green eyes focused on him suddenly. "Is that the first time you killed anyone alive?"

Rick sighed heavily. His hands started shaking lightly again. "Yeah…"

"Really? I had you pegged as the hero cop."

He shook his head. "No, I was a regular small town officer." In fact the only time he had seen some serious action had been that car chase before he was shot into a coma. Cynthiana hadn't been exactly a serious crime town. A few drunken orderlies, dumb overconfident teenagers and a kleptomaniac or two. Murders hadn't happened that often in his time as sheriff.

"Well, you certainly don't show it." Samara leaned into her seat, watching him carefully. "Are you going to be alright?" The last thing she needed right now was the sheriff flying off into a panic for shooting someone.

Rick nodded slowly, his voice low. "I will be."

He will get over this, he had too. Samara had been right about one thing, if he dwelled on the past for too long, he will drown.

"Is Lori your wife's name?"

Rick frowned. He didn't remember telling her his wife's name.

At his confusion, Samara clarified. "You kept calling me that went you were going in and out."

"Yes, that's my wife's name."

"And your son?"

"His name is Carl. He's twelve." He sighed. It seemed that the closer he got to Atlanta the farther it felt.

Rick then reached in his shirt pocket and placed the two pictures on the table. Samara's face fell when she saw them. She didn't move for about half a minute, just stood there staring at the pictures.

"Samara—"

Her hand snatched them up so fast, Rick thought she sprained her good arm. She looked at them with such intensity that the sheriff was sure they would catch on fire. Her green eyes slid upwards to him.

"Why didn't you tell me you had them? I did ask you."

"I barely knew what was going on much less remember I saved those photos from burnin'." He defended himself. "Besides, you slappin' me didn't help jog my memory."

Samara's gaze softened and she spoke quietly. "Thank you, Grimes."

"No problem." It surprisingly came to him that this was the first time that she addressed him by his name instead of his former position. He leaned back in his booth and watched as she stroked the photos tenderly. "They your family?"

"My father and my husband."

Pale green eyes stirred. Her eyes held such a peculiar shade and whenever emotion poured out, the green seemed to darken.

"Your father was police?"

"Yeah. He was Navajo Nation Police. Was shot by a dumb kid over some stolen laptops years ago."

"I'm sorry."

She shrugged. It was ancient history.

The marshal reached under the table for the bag there and brought out two bottles of water. The leather gloves came off and Rick saw the gold wedding band.

She handed one bottle to the sheriff.

"Thanks." He gladly accepted it. "What happened to your husband?"

Taking a sip, Samara didn't know if she should continue. She hadn't spoken to anyone about John since the world ended. Back in the old days, she had one or two people to whom she could talk about personal things and that was only because she trusted them. Samara wasn’t in the business of revealing her woes to strangers. But right now, she had no one to talk to anymore. No friends, no family.

—It would be nice to talk about it.

"I don't know if he's alive or dead." She let out a heavy breath and fiddled with the ring. "John was in a different state when the epidemic really exploded."

"Didn't you try to reach him?"

"I did. Gave up soon."

"Why?"

"Because he was in New York." The guilt locked deep within was starting to awaken. "In a city with a population that vast, the virus spread quickly in barely any time. So, as to not have over eight million undead walking out of the city and doing their ghoulish thing, the army decided to nuke it."

"I'm sorry." Rick's voice was soft. "I know how it feels. Not havin’ closure."

"I guess you do."

"He could have escaped the blast, you know."

_Ever the optimist, huh sheriff?_

"Maybe. But then where could I start looking?" Her fingers tightened over the bottle. "Cell phones were of no use. I guess I could have just driven around the New York state, but even that would have been a waste. It's better if I believe he’s dead."

"I could never do that." He shook his head. The proof was right in front of him, in his actions.

Samara leaned back in her seat. "Well, it's different for you, you have a son. Blood like that is stronger."

Rick frowned. "Even if I didn't have Carl, I would still look for Lori."

His convincing and slight reprimanding tone made the guilt swell. The bottle formed indents as Samara gripped it tighter. She had done all she could have. What the hell else was she supposed to have done?

The bottle gave in, creaking loudly in the quiet RV. Rick watched as anger and shame filled up her eyes.

"Samara—"

"I love my husband." Her voice was strangled with barely kept emotion. The dam was chipping. "When I saw New York burning, I felt like someone tore my insides out. The chances of him having been burnt alive were too high. But if there was a small possibility of him still living, I—"

She cut herself off. The shadows underneath her eyes darkening.

She stayed like that until her composure was back in place.

"I just couldn't search for him…" It may seem heartless but this was the only way she knew how to deal with loss. Hope was very dangerous. It could get you killed or make you go mad. She wanted neither of those things to happen to her.

In her army days, she had lost many comrades and learned to deal with it efficiently. You couldn't have a pilot with less than 100% focus while flying into a war zone. That coping mechanism stayed with her through the rest of her life.

She grieved for her husband for a full day. Holed herself up into a house and cried her heart out. Then she picked herself up and moved on. She put a lid on that grief and buried it deep. She thought of him daily, but never gave into the blinding sorrow.

"I'm no judge, Samara. You don't need to justify yourself to me." Rick said softly.

She nodded and her fingers uncurled themselves from the bottle.

The dam had been mended. Danger had passed.

"I'm takin’ watch. I can't stay in this RV any longer and you need to rest." Rick tried to take her mind off her dark thoughts.

She pocketed her wallet and seized the sheriff up. "Are you able?"

"Yeah, the pills worked."

"Thank you. I've been doing double time since last night. Take my gear. If you see any wendigos, don't shoot. If they see you, wake me up. I don't trust you to tackle them in your state."

Rick mentally rolled his eyes at that jab. It seemed she was back to her normal self.

Samara rose from the table and headed for the bed.

Rick picked up the goggles and rifle she left on the counter. He never used a sniper rifle before, but he was a fast learner if the situation warranted it. "I can take the whole shift. You've done enough."

"Fine. But if you get dizzy, don't hesitate. Wake me up at first light."

Rick nodded and exited the Winnebago.

Samara shooed Alistair off the bed and laid on it. The dog waited until she closed her eyes before jumping back on. An annoyed sigh left her lips, but she didn't retaliate.

_Damn dog._


	6. Good Luck, Rick Grimes

Like they settled, at 7AM they left the RV park. There had been a few undead that stumbled in their area, but they hadn't noticed the three live occupants until they were already in the car.

Once on the interstate, they had encountered several more car jams. Other than that the road had been pretty clear. If it continued on like that, Rick estimated that they would arrive in Atlanta in about an hour. They passed the time in silence, neither having anything to say to each other after their discussion last night.

More than half an hour in their journey, they spot a farm house with stables near the side of the road, and decide to stop there. They were 10km away from Atlanta, so when Rick saw the car parked in the driveway of the house, he decided that they should stop for a rest. He would need a car anyway.

Searching the house, they found nothing but a few corpses in the living room. It looked like the previous occupants of the farm house had decided to opt out, the father administering the finishing blows. Rick had left the house once he saw the bodies, saying that he was going to check the car if it worked. Alistair followed, the decayed coppery scent of blood being nauseating to the dog.

Samara stood in front of the macabre scene, an unlit cigarette dangling between her lips as her eyes inspected the writing on the wall with disinterest.

_**God forgive us.** _

She snorted. God stopped listening a long time ago.

She pitied these fools. It is easy taking the way out in a bleak situation, to not fight and just give up. Fighting means pain, it means hardship. It's seeing every ugly thing about the world and yourself. Why do that when you can just close your eyes, deny everything and sleep eternally.

They were together. They could have fought through it. If only one of them had been left alive then she would have understood the fatalistic action.

Samara took one last look at the family and went in search for anything useful in the house. Some blankets and clothes, a few cans of peaches and jars filled with strawberry jam. She loaded it all in the Jeep and then looked around for the sheriff. He was nowhere in sight. Unsheathing her machete, she cautiously walked towards the car where he and Alistair were supposed to be.

The hood of the car was lifted. Something must have been wrong with the engine if the sheriff left it like that. Prowling the farm grounds, Samara let out a low whistle. A moment later she heard Alistair's loud response coming from the stable. Approaching it, she froze when she heard a faint neigh.

_A horse?_

Slowly walking towards the stables, she found a sight in there that broke something between a cough and a laugh out of her.

There was the sheriff, sitting atop a brown horse.

"I see you've decided to complete the set." She leaned against the stable entrance. There was a smile on her lips that actually reached her eyes for once. "You have the badge, the hat, the gun and now the horse. All you need now is a handlebar moustache and you're a true southern sheriff."

Rick chuckled. He realized that he was quite a sight, but he needed transportation. Samara wasn't going to give him the car, so when the deceased families beat up family truck didn't work, he found the horse.

"I need somethin’ to get me to Atlanta. This is the only thing I could find last minute." He patted the mare's mane. "Unless you could spare the car…"

"The horse will do just fine." She sidestepped the mare. "I didn't see it when we drove here."

"I was tryin' to get the motor started when Alistair just ran off. Saw him approachin’ her in the fields behind the house."

"Did he try to herd it?" She gave him a flat look.

Rick smiled. "Yeah, he started circlin' her and guidin’ her towards me."

Samara shook her head. _Damn dog._

"The owners must have let the horses loose before…" He left the sentence open, not needing to state the obvious. "She must have never left."

"Do you even know how to ride one?" Samara didn't approach the horse, knowing better from experience.

"Not really..." His gaze turned a bit uncertain. "But I guess it can't be that hard. You just steer by the reins."

Samara gave him a flat look. "Just pray this beast doesn't throw you off."

Rick let out an amused breath. "Not a horse person, I take it?"

"I have no problem with them as long as I'm not riding one. They're not dependable."

"She seems alright. Ain’t you?" Rick addressed the mare and patted it on its neck. The horse shook its mane. "I'll take that as a yes." He smiled, giving her a few more pats.

Samara shrugged and turned to leave the stables. "It's your call."

 

* * *

How strange.

Samara was driving the Cherokee with the sheriff riding the hazel mare alongside the car. If the world were still normal, they would have made quite a spectacle.

The woman let out an amused snort, finding the whole situation ridiculous. But the sheriff wanted the horse, so he got the horse. It was foolish in her opinion. If he was going to walk into a wendigo infested city, he should have waited until he found a working car. Horses don't offer protection and when they get spooked they tend to throw you off the saddle.

But then again, Samara didn't give the sheriff too much hope that he would actually survive Atlanta. Horse or not. It was the honest truth in her opinion. The sheriff was going to his death, because that's what cities represented.

It was a shame. Grimes was capable of surviving this world. He would have been a good partner to have until one of them died.

 

* * *

Rick pulled the horse to a stop. His eyes were glued to the sight in front of him.

There it was.

_Atlanta._

He was finally here. After a month and a half since waking up alone in the Cynthiana hospital, he finally made it to Atlanta. Only, he never imagined this. The city…it was almost in ruins. Buildings were charred, some half demolished, metal structures sticking out in every way possible. Half of the main road leading to Atlanta was blocked by an extended column of cars – the side exiting the city. The way into Atlanta was clean of any vehicles.

There was an uncanny stillness in the air. It was like a historical Civil War site he had once taken Carl to. The area frozen in time.

Samara had been right. The city was _dead_.

Dismay slowly overtook his heart. Rick came to when the Cherokee's engine got cut off. Samara stepped out of the jeep with Alistair right on her tail and took off her sunglasses. It seemed the image disturbed her also from the somber look that appeared on her face.

"Goddamn…"

Rick agreed full-heartedly with her. This was a depressing sight.

Samara climbed atop the Cherokee and brought the binoculars at her eyes. There were no wendigos ahead, even among the abandoned vehicles. She could see some downed bodies, but they weren't moving…Then again, that didn't say much.

"It's clear."

_You don't need binoculars to see that_ , Rick thought.

"This is the farthest I go, sheriff." She jumped off the hood and approached the horse.

Rick knew that there weren't going to be any heartfelt goodbyes between him and Samara. He wished there was, he didn't want to believe that the last person he will have any sort of interaction with if he dies today would be the cold marshal.

They both stare at each other, silently communicating what they couldn't—wouldn't—say. One in fear of losing courage, the other in fear of showing that she cared, even for a tiny bit.

_It’s suicide. You will die. You can still turn around. Your family is dead._

_There’s still hope. Understand I can’t give up. My family is alive. I will find them._

Samara let out a deep sigh and shook her head. The determination in the sheriff left her frazzled and sick to the bone. Alistair joined her and watched their exchange with flat ears. Even he, in his primitive mind, understood that something significant was happening.

A faint smirk broke her sober mood. "I'll be truly amazed if you make it out of there in one piece, sheriff."

His lips curved slightly. "Care to bet on that?"

"How about a bottle of vodka?"

Rick let out a small chuckle. "I'll keep you up to that. And could you do me a favor?" His gaze turned genially to the dog. "Take care of Alistair. Don't feed him to the undead or anything like that."

"I can't promise that." She chuckled wryly.

Alistair didn't seem to find that funny as he whined meekly.

Samara placed the round sunglasses back over her eyes. "One last piece of advice, sheriff. If you encounter any hostiles of the human kind, shoot them in the head. You'll thank me for it."

Rick nodded, but he didn't think he would follow her up on that suggestion. What reason was there?

With one last look, Samara and Alistair headed back towards the Cherokee.

"Good luck, Rick Grimes." Her soft, husky voice was carried by the summer breeze.

Rick's brows shot up. His full name now? He didn't know if he should be glad or worried that she had said it only at the end of the line.

He gave the marshal one last look before nudging the mare forward towards his destination.

_Good luck to you too, Samara._

 

* * *

Samara watched from inside the car until his form was swallowed by the concrete and metal of Atlanta.

Her green eyes were distant, already passed mourning for the sheriff. She had known from the moment he decided to head for Atlanta that this was how it was going to end. There was no sadness here, only a sense of inevitability.

But…there was a part of her that envied him. She saw it now at the end of their journey. It wasn't weakness of him to keep holding onto hope in this bleak situation. Samara had been of the mind that the sheriff was stupid and insane for still wanting to reach Atlanta. Grimes was, in truth, stronger than her. Simply because he hadn't given up when the odds were against him. Because he hanged on to the faint glimmer of hope that his family was alive. That he will reach them.

Whereas she, a former Army pilot and US Marshal who had been in cluster fuck situations, who not two nights ago took down six people, couldn't even have mustered up the strength to move one inch in search for her husband. Shame crawled into her being.

She gave a small prayer to the Holy People to watch over the sheriff. At least to get him alive and unharmed out of Atlanta.

Samara believed that Grimes was probably one of the last few decent ones still living even though he got on her nerves at times. And truly, a world with people like her running around was not such an appealing thought. Right now, what was left of humanity needed people like Grimes. To give hope and to lead.

Alistair whined again. He had been doing that since the sheriff departed. He was already missing him.

Samara patted him on head. "Come on, let's go."

With a sigh, she started the engine. She was about to turn the car around when Alistair's ears suddenly perked up. He placed his front paws on the dashboard and looked out the windshield attentively.

Samara killed the engine and listened. There was a distant continuous beat breaking the quiet of Atlanta.

Her eyebrows shot up. She knew that thumping sound. Had been around it for the most part of eight years.

Samara watched as the familiar form of a helicopter appeared in her vision. Her eyes remained glued to it as it flew overhead and towards Atlanta.

"Well, will you look at that?"

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Important!!!
> 
> Okay, so this is the end of 'I Walk the Line'. I hope you enjoyed it so far and thanks for the kudos and reviews! They always lighten up the mood. I'm glad to say that I have the next story of the Samara series finished and it's called 'Ring of Fire'.  
> 

**Author's Note:**

> There you go, the first chapter of the prequel. Hope it piqued your interest.  
> Constructive criticism is always welcomed.
> 
> See you next time!


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